JOY  IN  WORK 


I  expect  to  use  it  carefully  and  return  It  in  good  condition 
without  markings  of  any  kind. 


Flr«t 


Middle       Room      Date 


THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

TEN  SHORT  STORIES  OF  TODAY 


SELECTED  AND  EDITED  BY 

MARY  A.  LASELLE 

Editor  of  "Short  Stories  of  the  New  America' 
"The  Home  and  Country  Readers" 


__ 
...ii   a  steady  hand? 

.  ..vcs  to  be  chaste,  knightly,  faithful, 
-.  word  and  deed? 

e  have  to  turn  their  courage  from  the  toil  of  war 

he  toil  of  mercy;  and  their  intellect  from  dispute  of 

jrds  to   discernment  of   things;   and   their   knighthood 

rom  the  erranty  of  adventure  to  the  state  and  fidelity  of 

a  kingly  power." 

m 


2025678 


COPYRIGHT,  1920 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

May,  1928 


FOREWORD 

Let  us  read  what  is  said  by  men  of  vision  in  regard  to 
the  joy  in  work: 

TOHN  RUSKIN; 

"  Ask  the  laborer  in  the  field,  at  the  forge,  or  even  in 
the  mine;  ask  the  patient,  delicate-fingered  artizan,  or  the 
strong-armed  fiery-hearted  worker  in  bronze  and  in  marble 
and  with  the  colors  of  light;  and  none  of  these  who  are 
true  workmen  will  ever  tell  you  that  they  have  found 
the  law  of  heaven  an  unkind  one  —  that  in  the  sweat  of 
their  face  they  shall  eat  bread  till  they  return  to  the 
ground ;  nor  that  they  ever  found  it  an  unrewarded  obedi- 
ence, if  indeed,  it  was  rendered  faithfully  to  the  command 

—  Whatsoever  thy  hand  findeth  to  do,  do  it  with  thy 
might. 

Can  they  (our  youth)  plow,  can  they  sow,  can  they 
plant  at  the  right  time  or  build  with  a  steady  hand? 
Is  it  the  effort  of  their  lives  to  be  chaste,  knightly,  faithful, 

—  lovely  in  word  and  deed  ? 

We  have  to  turn  their  courage  from  the  toil  of  war 
to  the  toil  of  mercy;  and  their  intellect  from  dispute  of 
words  to  discernment  of  things;  and  their  knighthood 
from  the  erranty  of  adventure  to  the  state  and  fidelity  of 
a  kingly  power." 

m 


2025678 


iv  FOREWORD 

THOMAS  CARLYLE; 

"  There  is  a  perennial  nobleness  and  sacredness  in 
Work.  Were  he  never  so  benighted,  forgetful  of  his  high 
calling,  there  is  always  hope  in  a  man  who  actually  and 
earnestly  works;  in  Idleness  alone  is  there  perpetual  de- 
spair. 

Blessed  is  he  who  has  found  his  work;  let  him  ask  no 
other  blessedness  —  How  as  a  free-flowing  channel,  dug 
and  torn  by  noble  forces  through  the  sour  mud-swamps 
of  one's  existence,  like  an  ever-deepening  river  there  it 
runs  and  flows;  draining  off  the  sour,  festering  water; 
making  instead  of  pestilential  swamp,  a  green,  fruitful 
meadow  with  its  clear-flowing  stream." 

"  The  modern  majesty  consists  in  work.  What  a  man 
can  do  is  his  greatest  ornament." 


"  Nothing  great  was  ever  achieved  without  enthusiasm." 
"  The  reward  of  a  thing  well-done  is  to  have  done 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON  : 

"  I  know  what  pleasure  is  for  I  have  done  good  work."     * 

CHARLES  DICKENS: 

"  Whatever  I  have  tried  to  do  in  my  life,  I  have  tried 
with  all  my  heart  to  do  well.  What  I  have  devoted 
myself  to,  I  have  devoted  myself  to  completely.  Never 
to  put  my  hand  to  anything  on  which  I  would  not  throw 
my  whole  self,  and  never  to  affect  depreciation  of  my 
work,  whatever  it  was,  I  find  now  to  have  been  my  golden 
rules." 


X 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A   FISHERMAN   OF   COSTLA,   from    QjtL.-af 
Gloucester  —  lames  B.  Connolly  ...        3 

One  of  the  best  descriptions  of  a  master 
painter  of  the  joys  and  the  nobility  of  spirit  of 
the  fisher  folk. 


FRANCE'S  FIGHTING  WOMAN  DOCTOR,  from 
The  Day  of  Glory  —  Dorothy  Canfield   .      32 

The  splendid  work  of  a  wonderful  woman  is 
here  portrayed  with  beauty  and  sincerity. 


THE  WORK  OF  A  RANCHMAN,  from   The 
Boys'  Life  of  Roosevelt  —  Hermann  Hage^ 

dorn 66 

The  joy  of  Theodore  Roosevelt's  work  upon  a 
western  ranch. 


THE  ZADOC  PINE  LABOR  UNION  —  H.  C. 
f  i      Bunner 80 

r  Shows    the    possibilities    of    individual    effort, 

and  pokes  delicious  fun  at  labor  unions. 


V    THE  THOUGHT  AND  THE  STONE  —  Mary 

E.  Waller in 

The   talk   of  the   good   Father   Honore  brings 
out  the  nobility  and  dignityof  th<^  wMk  of  .* 


quarryman. 

V 


i  CONTENTS 

VI     THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME— 


The  son  of  a  rich  man  learns  the  lumbering 
business  and  "  makes  good." 

VII     THE  LAST  THRESHING  IN  THE  COULEE, 
from  A  Son  of  the  Middle  Border  —  Harn- 

Ijp    Qfli-lanH     |^ ^6 

A  chapter  from  the  autobiography  of   a   fa- 
mous author  from  the  Middle-West. 

VIII     D&^GRENFEnJs  PARISH  —  Norman  Duncan  147 

A  chapter  from  the  life  of  a  man  whose  work 
has  brought  light  and  joy  into  very  dark  places. 

IX    THE    MAKING   OF    A    BASKET  —  Kate    T. 

Fogarty 159 

The  Indian  woman's  ideals  of  beauty  and  of 
tribal  history  as  pictured  in  her  work  in  basketry. 

X     FROM  THE  DEPTHS  OF  THINGS  —  La3vrence_ 

Eerrv 167 

The    spirited    race   of   two    antiquated   ocean 
"  tramps." 


THE  AUTHORS  AND  THE  STORIES 

JAMES  BRENDAN  CONNOLLY  is  a  famous  author  of 
sea  stories.  These  tales  are  written  with  a  power  of 
description,  a  realism  and  a  sympathy  for  sea-going  folk, 
especially  for  fisher  folk,  that  make  them  not  only  inter- 
esting as  sea  stories  but  also  authentic  and  valuable  in- 
formation in  regard  to  all  phases  of  sea-going  life. 

Mr.  Connolly  is  a  native  of  Boston,  but  inherits  the 
emotional  qualities  of  the  Celt  and  a  love  of  the  sea  and 
of  sea-going  occupations.  / 

This  author  had  the  honor  of  winning  the  first  Olyjppic 
championship  of  modern  times  at  Athens  in  i§9&_  He 
also  won  the  $5000  prize  offered  by  Collier's  for  the  best 
taleTof  the  sea.  This  story  was  entitled  The  Trawler. 

Some  of  Mr.  Connolly's  other  tales  of  the  sea  are,  The 
U-Boat  Hunters,  Running  Free,  Wide  Courses,  Open 
Water,  The  Crested  Seas,  The  Deep  Sea  Toll  and  Out 
of  Gloucester,  from  which  the  beautiful  story  of  The 
Fisherman  of  Costla  is  taken  for  this  book. 

DOROTHY  CANFIELD  (Dorothea  Frances  Canfield 
Fisher),  the  author  of  The  Day  of  Glory,  from  which 
France's  Fighting  Woman  Doctor  was  taken,  is  not  only 
one  of  the  most  brilliant  and  convincing  present-day  writ- 
ers of  fiction,  but  she  is  also  of  international  fame  as  a 
writer  upon  educational  subjects,  and  a  noble,  broad- 


viii      THE  AUTHORS  AND  THE  STORIES 

minded  woman  who  worked  indefatigably  in  rendering 
help  to  soldiers  made  blind  during  the  war  in  Europe. 

Some  of  Dorothy  Canfield's  best  known  fiction  is  The 
Squirrel  Cage  and  The  Bent  Twig,  and  under  her  mar- 
ried name,  Dorothy  Canfield  Fisher,  she  has  produced 
several  educational  works.  Among  them  are  The  Mon- 
tessori  Mother  and  Mothers  and  Children. 

During  her  years  of  war  work  in  France,  Mrs.  Fisher 
secured  from  personal  observation  the  material  for  two 
books  which  have  made  a  tremendous  appeal  to  America. 
These  are  Home  Fires  in  France  and  The  Day  of  Glory. 

In  France's  Fighting  Woman  Doctor,  Mrs.  Fisher 
gives  an  account  of  the  wonderful  work  of  Dr.  Nicole 
Girard-Mangin.  She  says  of  this  physician,  "  She  is  a 
human  being  of  the  highest  type,  giving  to  her  country 
the  highest  sort  of  service,  and  remaining  normal,  sane 
and  well-balanced." 

Those  who  know  of  the  work  of  Mrs.  Fisher  for 
literature,  for  education,  and  for  humanity  feel  that  the 
above  characterization  could  be  truthfully  and  aptly  given 
also  of  the  author  of  The  Day  of  Glory. 

HERMANN  HAGEDORN  has  described  the  joy  of  Theo- 
dore Roosevelt's  life  upon  a  western  ranch  in  a  sincere 
and  sympathetic  manner. 

Mr.  Hagedorn  is  an  author  and  patriot  who  strives  in 
all  his  writing  for  the  development  of  the  highest  Ameri- 
can ideals.     His  first  noteworthy  literary  effort  was  the  I 
splendid  ode  written  for  his  Class  Day  at  Harvard,  A\ 
Troop  of  the  Guard  Rides  Forth  To-day. 


THE  AUTHORS  AND  THE  STORIES        k 

Mr.  Hagedorn  says  of  Mr.  Roosevelt's  efforts  to  assist 
him  in  securing  material  for  The  Boys'  Life  of  Roosevelt: 
"  He  has  opened  doors  which  only  he  could  open:  he  has 
turned  over  the  diaries  of  his  boyhood  and  of  his  later 
hunting  days;  with  a  patience  and  good  nature  which 
showed  no  abatement,  he  has  allowed  himself  to  be  cate- 
chized in  person  and  by  letter." 

In  the  prologue  to  The  Boys'  Life  of  Roosevelt,  the 
author  says,  "  Theodore  Roosevelt  was  the  epitome  of  the 
Great  Hundred  Million;  the  visible,  individual  expres- 
sion of  the  American  people  in  this  first  quarter  of  the 
twentieth  century.  He  was  the  typical  American.  A 
level-headed  winner,  a  loser  who  could  grin,  his  glory 
was  not  that  he  was  extraordinary,  but  that  he  was  so 
complete  an  expression  of  the  best  aspirations  of  the 
average  American.  He  was  the  fulfiller  of  our  good 
intentions;  he  was  the  doer  of  the  heroic  things  we  all 
want  to  do  and  somehow  don't  quite  manage  to  accom- 
plish. 

"  He  knew  us  and  we  knew  him.  He  was  humaji,  he 
was  our  kind,  and,  being  our  kind,  his  successes  and  his 
fame  were  somehow  our  successes  and  our  fame  likewise." 

The  extract  here  given  describes  Mr.  Roosevelt's  ex- 
periences in  1884. 

H.  C.  BUNKER  was  a  New  York  journalist,  the  edjtor_ 
of  Puck,  the  author  of  some  very  graceful,  delicate  verse, 
and  an  excellent  story  teller. 

Some  of  his  best  fiction  is  Jersey  Street  and  Jersey 
Lane,  Love  in  Old  Cloathes,  Zadoc  Pine  and  Othgr 


x         THE  AUTHORS  AND  THE  STORIES 

Stories,  The  Story  of  A  New  York  House,  and  Short 
Sixes. 

In  Zadoc  Pine  Mr.  Bunner  has  taught  the  valuable 
lesson  of  individual  effort —  even  if  unskilled  —  and  he 
makes  delicious  fun  of  the  attempts  of  "  union  labor  "  to 
dictate  in  regard  to  the  work  of  our  hero. 

In  Flams  ted  Quarries,  MARY  E.  WALLER,  the  author 
of  the  famous  Wood-Carver  of  'Lympus,  has  written  a 
story  that  is  a  powerful  exposition  of  present-day  condi- 
tions of  American  social  and  industrial  life,  and  has 
emphasized  very  strongly  the  nobility  and  dignity  of  work 
and  its  healing  power. 

In  this  narrative  we  watch  the  transformation  of  a 
quiet  back-country  New  England  village  into  the  life- 
center  of  a  great  and  far-reaching  industry. 

In  a  tale  rich  in  entertainment  and  full  of  courage  and 
tenderness  we  make  the  acquaintance  of  good  Father 
Honore  and  other  firmly  drawn  characters  and  we  see 
how  the  life  problems  of  a  half-dozen  nationalities  center 
in  their  work  in  the  granite  quarries,  which  the  good 
Father  interpreted  to  them  as  they  clustered  about  him  in 
the  meeting  which  this  chapter  records. 

STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE  is  an  authority  upon  out- 
of-door  life  and  the  accomplishing  of  the  great  tasks  upon 
the  rivers  and  in  the  forests  that  have  entered  into  the 
making  of  industrial  America. 

When  Mr.  White  writes  of  the  Northwestern  timber 
lands,  of  the  Arizona  deserts,  of  the  silent  places  filled 
with  the  mystery  and  poetry  of  the  wilderness,  the  reader 


THE  AUTHORS  AND  THE  STORIES         xi 

feels  that  authoritative  and  fascinating  tales  are  being  un- 
folded to  him. 

The  Rules  of  the  Game  is  a  book  big  with  the  grandeur 
of  the  gigantic  forests  and  alive  with  the  vitality  of  the 
strong  men  in  the  forefront  of  the  progressive  industry  of 
America. 

In  the  offices  of  the  plant  in  which  Bobby  Orde  was  a 
failure  because  of  his  inaccuracy,  and  in  the  forests  of 
Michigan  and  of  the  California  Sierras  where  he  finds  his 
place  in  the  world,  the  story  of  his  rise  in  the  ranks  of 
the  lumbermen  is  filled  with  keen  outdoor  interest  and 
spirited  adventure. 

Some  of  Mr.  White's  other  books  are,  The  Riverman, 
Arizona  Nights,  The  Blazed  Trail,  Blazed  Trail  Stories, 
The  Silent  Places,  The  Adventures  of  Bobby  Orde,  The 
Westerners,  The  Claim  Jumpers,  The  Forest,  The  Moun- 
tains, The  Pass,  Camp  and  Trail. 

HAM  LIN  GARLAKD,  author  of  The  Last  Threshing  in 
the  Coulee  from  A  Son  of  the  Middle  Border,  is  a  well- 
known  American  author  and  dramatist,  who  was  born 
and  bred  on  a  farm  in  Wisconsin,  worked  on  his  father's 
farm,  taught  school,  took  up  land  in  Dakota  and  found 
his  real  life-work  in  authorship  in  Boston.  Mr.  Garland 
now  resides  in  New  York  City,  where  he  has  produced 
fiction  of  high  literary  value.  His  greatest  accomplish- 
ment, however,  has  been  to  describe  with  realism  and  force 
the  life  of  the  Middle  West. 

Some  of  his  other  best  known  books  are  Main-Traveled 
Roads,  Prairie  Songs,  The  Long  Trail,  and  Other  Main 
Traveled  Roads. 


xii       THE  AUTHORS  AND  THE  STORIES 

NORMAN  DUNCAN,  author  of  Ur^Qr£njell's_ 
has  been  characterized  by  Dr.  Grenfell  as  "  a  high-souled, 
generous  idealist."  He  has  written  of  many  strange 
lands  and  people,  and  always  with  a  discerning  eye  but  a 
very  tender  touch. 

Among  his  most  powerful  tales  are  those  of  the  North- 
land, as  these  are  stories  of  life  reduced  to  its  elements. 

One  of  his  best  known  books  is  Dr.  Luke  of  the  Labra- 
dor. 

Whether  he  wrote  of  the  immigrants  of  the  East  Side 
of  New  York,  of  the  rough  lumberjacks  of  the  North- 
west, or  of  the  deep-sea  fishermen,  he  always  saw  the 
human  soul  in  every  lowly  person,  and  respected  it. 

In  The  Making  of  a  Basket  by  KATE  M.  FOGARTY  we 
secure  an  insight  into  the  charming  fancies  that  are  in 
the  minds  of  the  Indian  women  as  they  picture  their  ideals 
of  beauty  and  the  history  of  their  tribes  in  their  work  in 
basketry. 

Nihabe,  with  her  contempt  of  the  buyer's  gold,  her 
reverence  for  artistic  workmanship  and  for  the  traditions 
of  her  tribe,  and  her  womanly  love  for  her  husband's 
beautiful  gift,  claims  our  admiration  and  respect. 

From  the  Depths  of  Things  by  LAWRENCE  PERRY 
gives  us  the  spirit  of  high  adventure  which  makes  the  race 
of  the  two  old  tramp  steamers  through  the  Atlantic  a 
very  fascinating  tale.  We  may  not  sympathize  with  the 
owners  who  would  risk  human  lives  for  the  sake  of 
evading  the  McKinley  tariff,  but  the  humor  of  the  nar- 


THE  AUTHORS  AND  THE  STORIES      xiii 

rative,  the  "  dreaming  "  of  the  engineer  of  the  Climax 
as  he  walks  the  oily  passage  in  the  interior  of  the  old  boat, 
as  contrasted  with  his  indomitable  spirit,  all  make  a  most 
interesting  story. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Acknowledgments  are  made  to  the  following  publishers 
and  authors  for  permission  to  use  the  selections  contained 
in  this  book: 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons  and  Mr.  James  B.  Connolly 
for  "  A  Fisherman  of  Costla  "  from  Out  of  Gloucester. 
(Copyright  1902  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.) 

Henry  Holt  and  Company  and  Mrs.  Dorothy  Canfield 
Fisher  for  "  France's  Fighting  Woman  Doctor  "  from 
The  Day  of  Glory.  (Copyright  by  Henry  Holt  and 
Company,  1919.) 

Harper  and  Brothers  and  Mr.  Hermann  Hagedorn 
for  "  The  Work  of  the  Ranchman  "  from  The  Boys' 
Life  of  Roosevelt.  (Copyright  by  Harper  and  Brothers, 
1918.) 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  "  The  Zadoc  Pine  Labor 
Union,"  by  H.  C.  Bunner.  Second  Series.  (Copyright 
by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  1916.) 

Little,  Brown  and  Company  and  Miss  Mary  E.  Waller 
for  "  The  Thought  and  the  Stone  "  from  Flamsted  Quar- 
ries. (Copyright  1910  by  Mary  E.  Waller.) 

Poubleday,  Page  and  Company  and  Mr.  Stewart  Ed- 
ward White  for  "  The  Rules  of  the  Game  "  from  the 
book  of  that  title.  (Copyright  by  Doubleday,  Page  and 
Company,  1911.) 

xv 


xvi  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The  Macmillan  Company  and  Mr.  Hamlin  Garland 
for  "  The  Last  Threshing  in  the  Coulee  "  from  A  Son  of 
the  Middle  Border.  (Copyright  by  The  Macmillan 
Company,  1917.) 

Fleming  H.  Revell  Company  for  "Dr.  Grenfell's 
Parish  "  by  Norman  Duncan.  (Copyright  by  Fleming 
H.  Revell  Company.) 

Out  West  Magazine  Company  for  "  The  Weaving  of 
a  Basket "  by  Miss  Kate  M.  Fogarty.  (Copyright  Out 
West  Magazine  Company,  1906.) 

Mr.  Lawrence  Perry  for  "  From  the  Depths  of 
Things."  (Copyright  McClure's  Magazine,  1908.) 


THE  JOY  IN  WORK 


A  FISHERMAN  OF  COSTLA 

From  Out  of  Gloucester,  by  James  B.  Connolly.  Copyright, 
1902,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  By  permission  of  the  pub- 
lishers and  the  author. 

The  captain  of  the  coast  steamer  almost  laughed  aloud 
at  the  absurdity  of  the  question.  "  Cross  to  Kilronan,  in 
the  outer  Arran  Island,  to-day?  No,  sir,  not  for  all  the 
money  your  clients  have  in  prospect.  Even  if  my  steamer 
had  not  two  loose  plates  forward,  and  her  condenser  all 
out  of  gear,  as  my  engineer  says,  I  would  not  head  her 
out  in  the  bay  to-day  —  not  for  all  the  money  of  one  of 
your  American  millionaires.  No,  sir." 

"  But  consider  the  urgency,"  panted  the  stranger. 
"  Consider — " 

"Consider  the  urgency?  Consider  the  steamer,"  re- 
torted the  captain.  "  Lord,  you'd  never  need  to  say 
you've  just  arrived  from  strange  parts.  If  you'd  been  in 
Galway  for  more  than  ten  minutes,  you'd  have  known 
that  this  howling  westerly  gale  that's  sweeping  in  on  this 
coast  would  make  a  junk-pile  in  quick  order  of  any  old 
iron  steamer  of  the  tonnage  of  mine.  In  quick  order, 
yes,  sir  —  up  on  the  rocks  she'd  go  —  it's  all  rocks  on  this 
coast.  And  then  where  would  my  captain's  papers  be?  " 

"  Name  your  price,"  persisted  the  stranger.  He 
~»  3 


4  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

dropped  his  suit-case,  put  his  hand  to  his  inside  coat- 
pocket,  and  drew  out  a  thick  wallet.  "  Name  your 
price.  I'll  charter  the  steamer  for  a  week,  and  you  can 
have  her  back  at  the  end  of  twenty-four  hours,  and  it's 
only  two  hours'  run  to  Kilronan,  as  you  said  yourself. 
Two  hours  out  and  two  hours  back,  four  hours  steaming 
besides  the  waiting  while  I'm  looking  over  the  records 
with  your  parish  priest  and  parish  clerk  —  six  hours  all 
told  and  my  business  will  be  done  with.  What  do  you 
say?  Name  your  price." 

"  No,  no,  I'm  sorry,  but  I  would  not  try  it  even  if  my 
steamer  was  ready,  for  the  value  of  the  whole  estate  you 
say  may  be  at  stake.  No,  no,"  replied  the  steamer  cap- 
tain. 

"  Then  what  am  I  to  do?  At  the  hotel  I  stopped  just 
long  enough  to  make  inquiries,  and  they  sent  me  to  you. 
They  told  me  that  if  you  would  not  take  me  to  Arran, 
nobody  out  of  Galway  would  take  me,  unless  it  were  a 
Claddagh  fisherman  across  the  harbor  in  one  of  their  little 
sailing-vessels.  And  then  they  added  that  if  I  could  get 
a  fisherman  ready  to  risk  it,  it  is  more  than  likely  he 
could  not  do  anything  against  this  storm  —  it's  a  head 
wind  to  Arran." 

"  They  told  you  right.  Lord  bless  you,  no  hooker 
could  ever  beat  out  this  gale.  Kilronan  bears  about  west 
from  here,  and  this  wind's  straight  from  the  west-north- 
west. If  the  wind  was  blowing  from  offshore  now,  why 
you  might  speak  of  taking  a  hooker,  if  you  would  find 
anybody  crazy  enough  to  try  it.  Though  as  for  that  part 
of  it,  you'll  find  Irishmen  crazy  enough  to  try  almost 


A  FISHERMAN  OF  COSTLA  5 

anything  —  I  mean  if  you  can  show  'em  a  half-decent 
reason  for  it.  They  won't  do  it  just  for  the  money, 
remember  —  no,  sir,  not  for  all  the  money  that  wallet 
of  yours'll  hold  —  but  if  you  could  work  up  their  feel- 
ings — " 

"  If  the  wind  were  blowing  from  off-shore  ?  "  repeated 
the  stranger  absently.  "  But  is  there  no  place  around 
here  on  the  coast  from  which  the  wind  blows  toward 
Arran?" 

"  Ha!  Why,  that's  so,  too!  There's  the  north  shore 
—  there's  Costla.  From  Costla  to  Kilronan  the  wind 
won't  be  behind  you,  mind,  but  it  will  be  a  fair  wind  — 
fair  enough  for  a  passage.  But,  my  soul,  think  of  the 
risk." 

"Risk?— in  the  boat?" 

"In  the  boat?  —  yes  —  crossing  Galway  Bay  in  this 
gale." 

"  Would  your  fishermen  here  be  afraid  ?  They  told 
me  other  tales  of  them,  captain."  The  stranger  smiled 
in  an  exasperating  way. 

"  See  here,"  said  the  captain.  "  Don't  you  run  away 
with  any  notion  that  our  fishermen  hereabouts  won't  fish 
when  any  other  men  on  earth  would  go  out  and  fish  in 
small  boats.  But  let  me  tell  you,  it's  one  thing  to  fish 
because  the  wife  and  children  at  home  need  the  help,  and 
another  thing  —  here,"  the  captain  broke  off  with  some 
heat,  "  look  here  now,  and  I'll  tell  you.  A  while  ago 
you  said  you'd  go  to  any  labor  and  any  risk  to  reach 
Kilronan  to-day,  and  be  back  here  to-morrow  morning?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  stranger,  "  any  labor  and  any  risk  so 


6  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

as  to  be  back  here  and  aboard  the  train  that  will  connect 
with  the  White  Star  steamer  out  of  Queenstown  to- 
morrow morning.  If  I  don't  do  this  thing,  and  take 
that  steamer  so  as  to  be  back  in  time,  my  trip  over  here 
is  of  no  avail.  And  it  means  more  than  a  dead  loss  of 
time  and  money  to  the  firm.  I'm  a  young  lawyer  in  a 
big  office,  and  this  thing  means  a  lot  to  me.  You  tell 
me  what  to  do  and  I'll  do  it  at  any  risk." 

"You  will?  Well,  you  go  to  Costla  —  that's  on  the 
coast  on  the  north  side  of  Galway  Bay,  as  I  said.  It's 
the  nearest  place  on  the  mainland  to  Kilronan.  There's 
a  fair  road  from  here  to  there;  it's  on  the  mail-car  route 
that  goes  out  of  the  western  side  of  Galway.  You  go 
to  Costla,  First,  of  course,  you  go  to  the  Royal  Hotel 
up  the  street  —  that's  where  you  just  came  from  —  and 
tell  them  you  want  a  jaunting-cai,  a  fast  horse,  and  a 
good  driver.  Get  Pat  Kelley  if  you  can,  and  have  him 
arrange  to  have  a  fresh  horse  for  you  at  Spiddle.  There's 
always  a  fresh  horse  to  be  had  at  Spiddle,  and  that's  half 
way  to  Costla.  You  ought  to  be  at  Costla  Bay  in  two 
hours  and  a  half.  It's  twenty-five  miles.  When  you 
get  to  Costla,  ask  for  Gerald  Donohue.  Anybody  will 
tell  you  where  to  find  him,  though,  there  being  two 
Geralds,  you  want  to  ask  for  the  right  one.  One  has  a 
son  in  the  Coast  Guards.  You  don't  want  him  —  he's 
old  and  stays  ashore  now.  You  want  the  other  Gerald 
that's  a  fisherman  and  has  no  son  in  the  Coast  Guards. 
He  did  have  a  son  that  would  be  old  enough  for  that 
now,  but  he  lost  him  the  time  the  last  big  wave  swept 
over  Glasher  Rock.  Anyway,  you  tell  Gerald  what  you 


A  FISHERMAN  OF  COSTLA  7 

told  me  when  you  first  hopped  off  that  car  a  while  ago. 
Tell  him  that  if  you  can't  get  those  records  with  the 
proper  certification  and  be  back  aboard  to-morrow  morn- 
ing's New  York  steamer  out  of  Queenstown,  your  clients 
—  a  family  of  children,  did  you  say  ?  —  well,  tell  him 
they'll  lose  a  fortune.  Tell  Gerald  that  and  put  it  strong 
to  him.  Tell  him  what  you  told  me,  that  the  fortunes 
of  those  children,  whose  father  was  Kilronan  born,  may 
be  hanging  on  your  getting  to  Kilronan  and  back  by  to- 
night, and  trust  Gerald  to  put  you  across  the  bay  to 
Arran  Island  if  any  living  man  will  do  it.  And  if  he 
gets  you  across  to  Arran,  then  he'll  make  small  work  of 
bringing  you  on  to  Galway  afterward,  for  it  will  be  a 
fair  wind  from  Arran  back  to  Galway.  He'll  only  have 
to  keep  her  from  swamping  on  the  way  back.  And  if 
Gerald  won't  do  it,  you  can  give  it  up  —  no  man  on  the 
coast  will  do  it." 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,  I'm  off.  O  jarvey — "  the 
stranger  leaped  to  the  jaunting-car  — "  to  the  Royal 
Hotel !  Lash  her  now !  " 

The  captain  gazed  after  him.  "  The  Lord  save  us,  I 
wonder  is  there  ever  one  of  them  American  business  men 
that's  got  time  to  take  a  full  breath." 

II 

It  was  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  that  the  American 
left  the  steamer-captain.  At  one  in  the  afternoon  he  was 
down  by  a  small  stone  quay  at  an  inner  point  of  Costla 
Bay  talking  to  a  fisherman  of  the  place,  Gerald  Donohue, 
the  right  Gerald  Donohue,  the  one  that  had  no  son  in 


8  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

the  Coast  Guards.  Stout,  bearded,  and  hardy-looking 
was  Gerald  of  the  blue  eyes  and  simple  speech. 

"  Sure  it's  the  moving  tale  you're  telling  me,"  he  was 
saying.  "  But  do  you  think  what  it  means  if  my  little 
vessel  is  lost?  The  wife  and  the  small  childer—" 

"  Well,  as  to  that,  Mister  Donohue,  I  can  only  say  that 
the  heirs  —  the  people  we're  fighting  for  —  will  see  that 
your  family  shall  not  want.  When  they  hear  the  story, 
as  hear  it  they  must,  for  I'll  be  with  you  and  they'll  nat- 
urally make  inquiries  —  if  we're  lost  then  you  can  count 
on  it  that  your  family  will  not  be  forgotten.  It  won't 
be  a  hundred  pounds,  or  two  hundred,  or  three  hundred 
that  they — " 

Gerald  raised  his  hand.  "  We'll  not  speak  of  the 
money.  The  man  that  would  cross  Galway  Bay  to-day 
for  money,  and  wife  and  childer  behind  him,  would  be 
staining  his  soul  with  the  black  marks  of  a  sin  that  the 
fires  o'  Purgatory  would  never  burn  out  —  never.  But 
for  Dannie  Costello's  childer  that  has  to  fight  for  the 
money  he  left  behind  sure  'tis  a  hard  thing.  The  childer 
that  can't  get  their  own  father's  money  —  man,  but  it 
is  the  hard  nature  that  is  fighting  them.  I  knew  Dannie 
for  ten  years  before  he  left  Arran  —  the  one  age  we 
were.  And  him  the  manager  of  a  boy  before  he  was  old 
enough  to  walk.  And  a  fine,  kind  boy  he  was.  And 
only  the  year  before  last  he  sent  fifty  pound  at  Christmas- 
time for  the  little  stone  church  they're  trying  to  build  in 
Kilronan.  Yes,  sir,  the  big  heart  had  Dannie.  And 
now  he's  dead,  you  tell  me,  and  they're  schemin',  the  vil- 
lains, to  keep  the  poor  childer  out  o'  the  money.  Sure 


A  FISHERMAN  OF  COSTLA  9 

an  awful  thing  is  law  now,  isn't  it?  Here,  Tammie  " — 
he  turned  to  a  twelve-year-old  lad  who  was  standing  near 
and  watching  the  surf  break  over  the  rocks  below  him. 
"  Tammie,  run  up  to  the  house  like  a  good  boy  and  get 
the  two  suits  of  oil-clothes  —  make  haste  now  —  while  I 
will  be  reefing  down  the  mainsail  and  taking  in  a  bit  of 
the  jib.  Make  haste,  Tammie,  for  it's  makin'  the  wind 
is  all  the  time.  Yes,  sir,  it  must  be  makin'  when  it  isn't 
going  down.  And  it's  big  boots  and  plenty  of  oil-clothes 
we'll  need  this  day.  And  do  yourself  get  into  the  hooker, 
sir,  yourself  and  your  valise,  while  I  do  be  reefin'  down." 

The  "  hooker  "  was  a  black-painted,  or  rather  black- 
tarred,  jib-and-mainsail  boat  of  perhaps  twenty-five  feet 
on  deck  and  eight  feet  beam.  Forward  she  was  decked 
over  but  aft  was  merely  an  open  space,  wherein  was  a 
lot  of  broken  rock  in  her  bottom  for  ballast.  Having 
been  used  at  odd  times  for  carrying  peat  to  the  islands 
in  the  bay,  a  great  deal  of  loose  loam  had  managed  to  sift 
down  into  the  crevices  of  the  stone,  thereby  giving  more 
than  usual  stability  to  the  ballast. 

The  lawyer  stood  on  the  ballast  and  watched  the  fierce 
surf  as  it  broke  over  the  rocks  that  edged  the  little  bay. 
He  could  not  quite  see  the  full  glory  of  the  surf  of  the 
greater  bay  outside,  the  bay  they  were  soon  to  attempt 
to  cross,  but  he  saw  enough  to  get  a  faint  idea  of  what  it 
might  be  like,  and  as  he  pondered  over  the  prospect  he 
began  to  experience  his  first  slight  sinking  of  the  heart 
since  he  left  Galway  and  almost  to  wish  that  to  some- 
body else  had  fallen  what  now  promised  to  be  a  hazardous 
undertaking. 


io  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

While  the  lawyer  was  soberly  meditating  the  fisherman 
was  rushing  preparations.  Three  reefs  were  put  in  the 
black  mainsail,  and  the  jib  was  taken  in  until  not  more 
than  half  its  original  size  was  spread.  The  hatch  to  the 
little  hole  forward  was  battened  down  and  running 
rrear  overhauled.  Gerald  did  not  like  the  look  of  the 
lib.  "  It's  old,  and  a  touch  of  rot  in  it.  If  there  was 
time,  there's  a  bit  of  a  storm-sail  below  I  would  put  on 
her  by  way  of  a  jib  instead  of  that  old  rag,  but  there's 
not  the  time  —  here  comes  Tammie,  with  his  load  of 
boots  and  oil-clothes. 

"  Throw  it  aboard,  Tammie. 

"  Ah,  poor  b'y,  ye  had  a  great  load  of  it,  sure  enough. 
Here,  sir  — "  he  turned  to  his  passenger  — "  take  off  your 
shoes  and  get  into  a  pair  of  these  boots,  and  put  the  oil- 
clothes  over  your  other  clothes.  Be  sure  but  you  will 
need  them." 

They  were  soon  ready.  "  Push  off,  Tammie,"  said  the 
fisherman  to  his  boy.  "  Pole  her  off  to  the  end  of  the 
quay,  and  then  go  back  and  tell  your  mother  I  won't  be 
back  for  three  days  maybe,  for  I'll  have  to  go  to  Gal  way 
to  put  the  gentleman  on  his  way.  Go  back  now." 

"  Can't  I  go  with  you,  father?  "  asked  the  boy. 

"Go  with  me!  The  Lord  forbid  —  sure  the  hair 
would  rise  off  your  head  with  the  fright  when  you'd  see 
the  waves  out  in  the  big  bay." 

"  I  wouldn't  be  afraid  with  you,  father." 

"  Whisht !  and  go  along  with  you.  'Tis  your  mother 
wouldn't  sleep  till  you  was  back  again.  Go  home  now, 
and  tell  her  as  I  just  told  you  to  tell  her — " 


A  FISHERMAN  OF  COSTLA  u 

"  She  knows  where  you're  going.  When  I  asked  for 
the  big  boots  and  oil-clothes,  she  asked  me  what  you 
wanted  them  for,  and  I  told  her." 

"  You  did?     And  what  did  she  say?  " 

"  She  said,  '  'Tis  the  foolish  man  your  father  is,  Tam- 
mie,  but  God  speed  him.'  Can't  I  stay  on  the  high  rocks 
and  watch  you  sail  across,  father?  "  pleaded  the  boy. 

"  No,  b'y,  no.     It's  too  windy  and  cold  there." 

"  But  I  want  to  see  you  sail  the  hooker  across  the  bay, 
father.  It's  fast  she'll  sail  in  this  wind,  and  I  want  to 
see  her  go." 

"  Then  go  up  to  the  Coast-Guard  station  and  watch 
from  there  with  your  cousin  Malachi.  'Tis  there  you 
will  be  able  to  see  beautiful  from  the  look-out  up  top. 
Go  now,  Tammie,  and  say  God-speed  for  us." 

Under  the  fisherman's  hands  the  little  hooker  was  skil- 
fully worked  from  out  of  this  rock-strewn  inlet  of  water 
known  as  Costla  Bay  into  the  much  larger  body  of  water 
known  as  Galway  Bay.  The  American  had  only  to 
dodge  the  spray  as  it  came  aboard,  and  Gerald  to  dodge 
with  the  hooker  the  rocks  that  stuck  their  sharp  points 
above  the  surface. 

"  Look  across  now,"  said  Gerald  —  they  were  clear  of 
the  sunken  rocks  inside  — "  that's  Arran  you  see  ahead. 
Eleven  mile  from  here  —  just  beyond  where  you  see  the 
water  all  white.  That's  the  surf  breaking  there  —  if  you 
can  see  it." 

"  I  think  I  can  see  it,  but  I'm  not  sure."  From  the 
stern  of  the  jumping  hooker  the  lawyer  was  trying  to  see 
things  ahead  and  at  the  same  time  keep  his  feet. 


12  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

"Not  sure,  ye  say?  Faith,  but  it's  the  weak  eyes  a 
man  gets  when  he  stops  long  ashore.  That's  Kilronan, 
and  the  long  stone  wall  there  is  the  pier.  That's  where 
we  are  going,  if  God  is  willing  —  to  the  other  side  of  that 
pier.  Now  keep  under  the  rail  and  out  of  the  wet,  if  you 
can,  for  we're  fair  into  it  now." 

What  the  American  knew  of  the  practical  workings  of 
the  sea  had  been  gained  altogether  from  his  recent  trip 
between  New  York  and  Queenstown.  For  one  twenty- 
four  hours  during  that  six  days'  passage  there  had  been 
enacted  what  the  saloon  referred  to  as  "  an  awful  storm." 
Some  spray  had  come  aboard  the  main  deck  of  the  liner, 
and  most  of  the  passengers  lay  in  their  berths  while  the 
awful  storm  should  go  by.  Our  young  lawyer  had  been 
among  the  brave  ones  who  had  stuck  it  out  in  the  smoking- 
room.  He  remembered  very  well  how  he  had  been  think- 
ing of  the  future  time  when  he  should  be  reeling  off  the 
details  of  that  storm  to  home  circles.  But  that  steamer 
was  600  feet  in  length,  with  a  wall  of  sixty  feet  from 
the  water's  surface  to  the  top-rail,  and,  to  preserve  the 
proportions,  this  little  hooker  was  about  the  size  of  one 
of  the  liner's  deck-boats,  with  less  than  two  feet  of  free- 
board —  that  is,  when  she  stood  on  an  even  keel.  To 
preserve  the  proportions,  this  little  vessel  should  be  now 
sailing  in  a  mill-pond  in  a  summer  zephyr.  Even  that 
something  less  than  two  feet  of  freeboard  would  have 
been  a  most  comforting  thing  were  it  there  now,  which 
it  was  not,  for  the  hooker  by  now,  working  clear  of  the 
main  shore,  and  the  wind  coming  abeam,  was  taking  a 
great  slant.  At  first  she  only  rolled  over  to  her  deck 


A  FISHERMAN  OF  COSTLA  13 

amidships,  and  the  water  did  not  bother  them  over-much. 
Spray  had  come  across  her  bows  from  the  very  first,  but, 
as  they  went  on,  sheets  of  spray  began  to  come  over  bows, 
midship,  and  quarter,  and  slap  them  from  head  to  toe 
even  when  they  crouched  back  in  the  stern.  Still,  even 
the  lawyer  did  not  mind  that.  He  had  some  philosophy 
in  his  make-up,  and,  having  been  warned  by  that  surf 
over  the  rocks  of  Costla  Bay,  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  some  discomfort.  But  it  was  not  until  the  hooker  had 
worked  out  from  the  lee  of  the  land  for  a  mile  or  so, 
and  the  real  force  of  the  wind  from  all  the  wide  Atlantic 
began  to  hit  her,  that  the  young  man  from  the  inland 
region  of  a  great  continent  began  to  see  more  clearly  than 
ever  that  he  had  embarked  on  an  enterprise  of  some  risk. 
He  derived  his  greatest  pleasure,  after  they  were  well 
into  it,  from  discovering  the  rail  when  it  showed  above 
the  sea,  as  it  did  every  now  and  then  when  the  fisherman 
held  her  up  a  trifle. 

The  fisherman  seemed  to  read  the  young  man's 
thoughts.  "  I  could  make  it  a  bit  more  pleasant,"  he  ex- 
plained, "  but  we  would  never  make  Kilronan  if  I  did. 
If  we  went  to  looard  we'd  never  in  this  world  work  her 
back  in  the  wind." 

"  I  see,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  but  doesn't  she  lay  rather 
away  over  sometimes?  Isn't  there  danger?" 

"  Danger?  —  not  a  bit.  Not  yet,  anyway.  Don't  you 
worry  now.  So  she  shows  the  rail  anywhere  near  the 
level  water  you're  safe  as  if  you  was  in  the  Coast-Guard 
station  we  left  behind  us.  'Tis  when  she  puts  that  plank 
above  her  rail  under  —  that  plank  that's  used  to  hold  the 


I4  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

turf  in  her  whenever  we  have  a  big  load  of  it  —  now  when 
that  goes  under  water  will  be  the  time  to  say  a  quick 
litany,  especially  if  the  ballast  shifts." 

"That  plank  under!  Good  Lord!  wouldn't  she  turn 
bottom  up  then  ?  " 

"  I  couldn't  say.  I  never  tried  her,  but  it  is  likely, 
sir." 

"And  if  she  tips  over,  what  shall  we  do?" 

"  Troth,  and  I  couldn't  say  as  to  that,  either ;  but 
swim,  I'm  thinkin'." 

"Swim!  I'd  have  but  a  small  chance,  then,  when  I 
can  barely  swim  a  hundred  yards  in  the  smoothest  water." 

"  Faith,  then  we'd  last  the  one  as  long  as  the  other, 
for  sorra  the  stroke  at  all  can  I  swim.  But  that's  neither 
here  nor  there,  for  it's  the  small  chance  we'd  have  if  she 
capsized  here.  Look  at  her  now,  sir." 

The  hooker  was  then  lifting  so  that  the  lawyer,  gazing 
at  her  forward  deck,  could  easily  imagine  himself  looking 
uphill;  and  when  she  pitched  down  and  her  bows  went 
clear  under  until  she  was  all  water  to  her  mast,  he 
thought  she  was  about  to  engulf  herself.  That  was  hap- 
pening almost  continuously,  but  she  did  have  steady 
streaks.  When  the  wind  was  steady,  she  simply  lay  down 
while  the  sea  rushed  over  her  side  and  swirled  over  the 
feet  of  the  two  men  in  the  stern. 

"  The  Lord  save  us,  but  she's  making  great  time,  isn't 
she,  sir?  Great  speed,  but  maybe  'twouldn't  do  her  no 
harm  if  you  was  to  keep  the  bailer  going.  That's  the 
bailer,  that  tin  pail  there  by  your  valise.  Man,  but  that 
valise  is  catching  it  —  and  a  finer  valise  I  never  set  eyes  on. 


A  FISHERMAN  OF  COSTLA  15 

I  know  it's  a  shame,  too,  to  make  a  regular-paid  passen- 
ger work  his  way,  but  with  yourself  bailing  you'll  have 
a  better  chance  to  make  that  same  passage  you'll  be  paying 
for  later,  if  you  make  it.  'Tis  the  great  sport  sailing  when 
you're  sure  you'll  get  home  all  right,  isn't  it,  sir?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  lawyer,  "  it  must  be."  His  voice 
had  not  the  viking  ring,  but  his  bailing  was  all  that  could 
be  desired. 

The  hooker  footed  on,  with  the  seas  tossing  her  about 
as  a  wooden  bucket  is  tumbled  in  a  beach  surf.  She  went 
down  into  the  hollows  until  the  lawyer  thought  she  was 
never  coming  up,  and  she  went  up  on  the  heights  until  he 
thought  she  would  stay  up  altogether.  The  seas  were 
green  and  each  had  a  crest  of  white  that  reminded  the 
landsman  of  the  long  teeth  of  an  angry  dog.  The  body 
of  the  sea  would  rush  on,  and  by  its  sheer  weight  throw 
the  hooker  far  and  high,  then  the  white  teeth  would  leap 
up  and  pounce  down  and  make  as  if  trying  to  tear  her 
planks  apart. 

The  lawyer,  to  gather  inspiration,  would  look  up  now 
and  then  from  his  bailing  to  study  the  face  of  the  fisher- 
man. Once  he  fancied  he  saw  a  fleeting  shade  of  worri- 
ment  in  the  blue  eyes.  With  some  trepidation  he  asked 
if  there  were  anything  wrong.  If  this  man  of  the  sea 
was  disturbed,  certainly  it  was  time  for  himself,  a  lands- 
man, to  watch  out. 

"  That  jib  there,"  answered  the  fisherman  after  a  long 
gaze  forward;  "I've  been  thinkin'  it  won't  hold  much 
longer.  Beginnin'  to  rip  it  is  at  the  foot  of  it.  Stand 
up  now  and  hold  the  tiller  when  I  put  her  in  the  wind. 


16  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

Wait,  wait  until  I  put  her  into  the  wind.  Have  a  care 
now,  and  let  me  show  you.  By  the  Lord,  but  that  was 
a  blast!  Och,  it's  gone!  May  the  divil  go  with  it!" 
The  jib  had  ripped  from  the  foot  up,  and  was  slatting 
off  in  strips  to  leeward,  like  half  a  dozen  long-tailed 
burgees. 

"  Hold  her  as  she  is,"  said  the  fisherman.  "  She'll  stay 
there  now  while  I  dive  into  the  hold  for'ard  for  a  bit  of 
storm-sail  that  we'll  make  a  jib  of.  I  always  mistrusted 
that  old  jib." 

The  hooker  rode  the  waves  so  much  more  easily  with 
her  head  to  the  wind  that  the  lawyer,  though  he  had  not 
the  slightest  idea  of  how  it  was  all  brought  about,  won- 
dered why  they  had  not  done  something  like  this  before. 
Certainly  this  was  better  than  to  let  her  heel  over  until 
she  threatened  to  roll  bottom  up. 

Forward  the  fisherman  had  got  out  a  small  triangle  of 
canvas,  and  was  swiftly  making  ready  to  attach  it  to  the 
old  jib  sheet  and  halyards.  To  expedite  matters  he  was 
forced  to  lie  out  on  the  little  bowsprit  and  allow  himself 
to  be  buried  with  that  plunging  stick  every  time  a  sea 
came  his  way.  He  quickly  made  a  pair  of  rough  hanks 
of  a  piece  of  old  line,  cut  away  such  pieces  of  the  old  jib 
as  threatened  to  hamper  operations,  came  back  inboard  and 
hoisted  away  on  his  halyards. 

"  There,"  said  he,  jumping  aft,  beard,  hair,  and  the 
oil-skins  running  brine,  "  there.  Now  we'll  go  our  way 
again." 

The  hooker  lay  over  again,  and  the  lawyer  resumed  his 


A  FISHERMAN  OF  COSTLA  17 

bailing,  stopping  only  long  enough  to  ask  Gerald  why  he 
could  not  have  kept  her  as  she  was  when  he  was  putting 
the  new  sail  in  place.  "  She  was  so  steady  then,"  he  said, 
"  so  steady  —  that  is,  compared  to  what  she  is  now." 

"  Steady,  yes,"  said  Gerald,  grimly.  "  A  pity  she 
wouldn't  be  half-way  steady,  and  she  hove-to.  But  let 
her  lay  so  long  enough  and  think  you  where  would  she 
be,  or  where  would  you  be  or  me  be?  Look  over  the 
rail  at  your  elbow  now.  See  where  the  sea  breaks  over 
that  ledge.  Twenty  feet  high  it  spouts,  and  that  ledge 
runs  far  out  from  the  shore  into  the  bay.  That's  where 
she'd  drift,  and  we'd  be  fools  enough  to  let  her.  How 
long  would  you  live,  I'm  asking  you,  sir,  in  that  b'iling  — 
if  you  was  lucky  enough  not  to  break  your  bones  in  the 
first  smash  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  I  didn't  know."  After  a 
pause  he  continued:  "No,  I  didn't  know.  If  I  knew 
what  it  was  going  to  be  I  would  never  have  dragged  you 
out  here,  nor  come  out  here  myself  —  no,  not  for  all  the 
reputation  I  ever  expect  to  make.  I  didn't  know." 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  fisherman,  "and  Dannie's 
childer  dependin'  on  ye?" 

"  Oh,  I  forget  them.  Yes,  I  would  come  —  but  what's 
that  awful  place  ahead  ?  " 

"  That's  where  the  shoal  makes  out  from  Arran. 
That's  the  bad  spot  tor  us.  'Tis  that  we'll  have  to 
weather  if  ever  we  make  Kilronan.  Man,  but  it's  cruel 
to  look  at,  isn't  it  now  ?  There's  where  we'll  have  to  let 
her  take  the  wind  in  full.  All  this  time,  d'  y'  see,  we've 


18  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

been  close-hauled,  but  we'll  have  to  swing  her  off  now  if 
we'd  pass  here.  Watch  out  now  and  get  a  hold  of  some- 
thing if  you  love  life." 

He  put  the  tiller  up  into  the  wind,  and  around  came  her 
head.  The  wind  took  her  fairly,  and  over  she  went. 
The  lawyer  thought  she  was  going  altogether,  and  the 
fisherman  said  "  Holy  Mary!  "  Her  solid  rail  went  far 
under,  and  the  turf-board  above  that  went  clear  under 
also,  and  the  water  that  rushed  into  the  open  part  of  her 
aft  seemed  about  to  swamp  her. 

"She's  going!"  called  the  lawyer — "My  God,  she's 
going!  "  He  grabbed  the  tiller  in  his  excitement. 

"Let  be  the  tiller — I'm  steering!  Take  a  grip  of 
my  waist,  or  anything,  but  let  be  the  tiller !  " 

"  I'm  up  to  my  knees,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"  To  your  knees,  is  it !  Man,  but  you'll  be  up  to  your 
waist,  maybe,  before  she  stops,  and  then  over  your  head, 
maybe.  Hold  on  now  —  hold  on  yet.  Holy  Mary,  but 
she's  getting  it.  But,  by  the  Lord,  she'll  make  it  yet. 
She's  coming,  by  my  soul,  she's  coming.  'Twas  a  blow 
that,  but  she'll  right  yet.  Give  her  a  chance,  give  her  a 
chance  now." 

For  a  full  two  minutes  she  lay  there,  within  an  ace  of 
being  hove-down  before  she  showed  signs  of  coming  up. 
Then  slowly  she  began  to  right,  with  the  fisherman  nurs- 
ing her.  Slowly,  slowly  she  came  up.  She  was  safe  at 
last.  For  a  while  she  was  logy  as  any  old  derelict  with 
the  loose  water  that  sloshed  about  in  the  open  space 
aft,  but  she  had  righted  and  that  was  the  really  important 
thing. 


A  FISHERMAN  OF  COSTLA  19 

"A  bad  little  place  that,  sir,"  observed  Gerald  when 
he  had  got  her  straightened  away  again.  "  A  point  makes 
out  from  the  shoals  there,  d'  y'  see?  We  had  to  shoot 
around  it  like,  y'  see,  and  that  made  all  the  trouble. 
'Twas  that  more  than  all  the  rest  of  the  passage,  though 
the  Lord  knows  'tis  rough  enough  it  is  —  but  'twas  that's 
been  on  my  mind  the  last  half  hour.  You  didn't  know 
that?  Why  would  you?  —  but  the  Lord  be  thanked 
we're  by  it  now.  There's  been  more  than  one  vessel  cap- 
sized and  more  than  one  crew  lost  there,  though  'twasn't 
all  of  them  had  ballast  that  stood  like  ours.  Man,  but 
the  turf  between  the  stones  under  our  feet — 'tis  as  good 
as  the  pig  iron  and  the  melted  lead  they  puts  in  the  bot- 
tom of  the  yachts.  Yes,  sir,  every  bit  as  good.  When 
it  holds,  I  mean.  Sometimes  it  don't  hold.  And  maybe 
it  was  the  hand  o'  God  —  that  jib  blowing  out  back 
there.  If  it  didn't  go  then,  'twould  go  that  last  time  and 
that  was  a  bad  place  to  be  stopping  to  bend  on  a  new  sail 
—  don't  you  think  but  it  was,  sir?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  lawyer.  Still  bewildered,  he  stood 
looking  back  at  the  boiling  point  they  had  passed. 
"Awful,  awful,  wasn't  it?"  he  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  sir  —  awful,  you  might  say,  but  don't  stop  bail- 
ing now  because  we're  past  it.  She'll  be  a  bit  livelier, 
d'  y'  see,  with  some  of  the  water  out  of  her.  That's  why 
I  have  the  stern  of  her  with  a  few  planks  out  —  so  the 
water  that  comes  over  the  rail  will  go  back  in  the  sea 
again."  He  grinned  slyly.  "  She  gets  clear  of  a  lot  of 
water  that  way.  But  keep  bailing  —  you're  doin'  fine  at 
the  bailing,  sir." 


20  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

The  lawyer  continued  to  bail,  and  Gerald  held  to  the 
tiller  until  the  happy  moment  when  they  shot  around  the 
end  of  the  pier.  "  There,"  said  Gerald,  "  we're  in  at 
last,  and  here's  Kilronan."  He  pointed  the  hooker  up 
for  the  pier,  cast  loose  the  halyards,  let  the  sails  run,  and 
dropped  her  gently  alongside  the  pier  steps. 

"  And  are  we  here?  "  asked  the  lawyer,  as  if  he  could 
hardly  believe  it. 

"Here  you  are  —  yes,  sir  —  Kilronan.  Go  up  those 
steps  ahead,  and  from  the  top  of  the  pier  you  can  see  the 
parish  priest's  place.  The  parish  priest  and  the  parish 
dark  will  have  all  the  records  you'll  be  wanting,  I  think. 
And  there's  a  notary  or  something  like  that  who  will  do 
the  swearing  the  dark  can't  do.  And  while  you're  gone 
I'll  be  eating  some  bread  and  fish  and  making  a  cup  of 
tea,  for  I've  had  no  dinner  this  day  and  I'm  fair  famished. 
When  you  get  back,  sir,  we'll  put  for  Galway.  Make 
haste,  sir,  and  if  the  Lord  is  good,  you'll  be  in  time  for 
your  Queenstown  steamer  in  the  morning." 

In  two  hours  the  young  lawyer  came  back,  radiant. 
"  It's  all  right,  it's  all  right,"  he  sang  out  to  Gerald. 

"  Is  it  ?  Well  that's  fine.  And  now  we'll  off  to  Gal- 
way.  Come  aboard,  sir." 

"  Will  it  be  bad  going  to  Galway?  Any  more  of  those 
bad  shoal  points  to  be  passed  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit.  'Tis  only  running  we'll  be  going  to  Gal- 
way in  this  wind.  We  have  but  to  hold  her  up  past  the 
light-house  till  we're  well  into  Gregory  Sound,  and  we're 
all  right.  She'll  make  great  dives  with  her  head,  but  it's 
hard  to  capsize  her  that  way  —  head  first.  'Twill  be 


A  FISHERMAN  OF  COSTLA  21 

rough,  maybe,  till  we're  past  the  Sound,  but  after  that 
we'll  put  for  the  lee  of  the  islands,  and  with  a  fair  wind 
and  smooth  water  and  Dan  Costello's  childer  in  mind 
and  we'll  have  you  in  Galway  to-night,  with  the  help  of 
God." 

That  night  in  his  room  at  the  hotel  in  Galway,  and 
while  he  was  waiting  for  the  porters  to  put  his  few  pieces 
of  baggage  in  the  jaunting-car,  the  American  drew  out 
his  thick  wallet  to  settleAip^- with  the  fisherman.  He  laid 
five  £10  Bank  of  England  notes  on  the  table.  "  There, 
Captain  Donohue,"  said  he,  "  there's  your  £50  as  prom- 
ised, and  your  work  was  worth  it  ten  times  over." 

Donohue  regarded  him  with  wonder.  "  Fifty  pounds  ? 
No,  no  — "  he  pushed  the  money  back  across  the  table  — 
"no,  no;  I'm  not  taking  £50  out  of  you,  sir.  Let  me 
have  two  pounds,  a  pound  for  to-day,  and  a  pound  for 
another  day  I'll  be  waiting  here  while  the  gale  blows 
by." 

"Two  pounds?  Don't  be  foolish  now,  Captain.  I 
said  this  morning  that  I'd  give  you  £50  to  take  me  across 
Galway  Bay.  And  here  are  the  fifty  pounds  that  I  said 
I'd  give  you." 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  said  you'd  give  me  it,  but  I  never  said 
I'd  take  it.  Put  up  your  money.  It  isn't  for  the  money 
I'd  be  risking  making  a  widder  of  Mora  and  orphans  of 
the  childer.  No,  sir;  two  pounds  is  my  price  this  day 
—  one  day  to-day,  and  another  day  to-morrow  when  I 
won't  be  able  to  get  back  to  Costla,  by  the  look  of  things 
now.  No,  no,  sir;  I'm  telling  you  now  'tis  never  for 
money  I'd  do  it.  Forty  years  ago,  when  I  was  a  little 


22  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

lad,  I  knew  Dannie  Costello.  'Twas  Dan  put  me  many's 
the  time  in  the  way  of  makin'  a  shillin'  with  him  now  and 
again.  Dan  Costello  was  good  to  me.  And  'twas  a  long 
ways  a  shillin'  went  in  them  days  —  starvation  days  we 
had  then.  Yes,  'tis  true,  we  haven't  too  many  comforts 
now,  but  we  manage  to  get  along.  When  you  see  the 
childer  again,  sir — and  if  they  are  anything  like  their 
father,  sir,  sure  they'll  be  the  fine  childer  —  when  you 
see  them,  give  my  respects  to  them,  sir.  A  friend  of  their 
father's,  tell  them.  Tell  them  that,  if  you  will,  and  I'll 
thank  you.  Two  pounds  —  no  more,  no  more.  What  ? 
The  sail?  Well,  put  in  a  pound  for  the  old  sail.  Troth, 
and  it  was  an  old  sail,  and  I'll  be  cheating  you  at  that. 
Three  pounds  I'll  take.  No  more.  I  couldn't.  Thank 
you,  sir,  and  hurry  now  if  you  would  catch  the  cars  for 
Queenstown.  Good-by,  sir,  good-by,  and  remember  me 
kindly  to  Dan  Costello 's  childer." 


Ill 

When  the  roar  of  the  hurrying  train  had  become  no 
more  than  one  of  a  thousand  other  far-away  echoes  in  the 
night,  the  fisherman  returned  through  the  narrow  streets 
of  the  old  city  to  the  big  dock,  to  the  end  of  which  was 
tied  his  little  hooker.  He  sloshed  around  with  the  tin 
pail  and  bailed  out  such  water  as  he  could  find  by  feeling 
in  the  dark.  He  shook  the  reefs  out  of  the  mainsail, 
hoisted  it  clear  to  the  blocks,  that  it  might  have  a  chance 
to  dry,  and  then  looked  up  at  the  shadow  of  it  as  it 
hung.  "  There,  that's  off  my  mind,  and  now  for  a  little 


A  FISHERMAN  OF  COSTLA  23 

bit  of  comfort."  He  felt  his  way  forward  and  dropped 
through  the  hatchway  into  the  little  hole  of  a  cabin. 

Here  he  groped  about  in  the  extreme  darkness  until 
his  fingers  rubbed  against  a  piece  of  a  candle  and  a  card 
of  matches  that  protruded  from  somewhere  up  between 
the  deck-planking  and  a  transverse  beam.  The  matches 
he  struck  one  after  the  other  until  he  got  one  that  would 
stay  alight  long  enough  to  get  the  candle  going.  He 
raked  over  the  ashes  on  the  little  stone  slab  that  served 
him  for  a  hearth,  but  found  them  all  damp.  "  Man," 
he  murmured,  "  but  the  water  surely  came  through  her 
old  j'ints  this  day."  He  went  to  a  locker,  took  out  a 
small  piece  of  very  soft  wood,  from  which,  after  whittling 
into  shavings,  he  managed  to  get  a  tiny  blaze.  "  The 
very  air  has  salt  water  in  it,"  he  whispered  to  himself. 
After  another  while  he  felt  hopeful  of  getting  a  kettle  of 
water  to  boil.  "'  'Twas  good  the  locker's  half-way  dry 
with  the  wood  in  it.  We'll  have  tea  yet,  by  the  Lord." 
The  thought  gave  him  intense  satisfaction.  "  A  pot  of 
fine  hot  tea,  yes,  and  something  to  eat  with  it.  And 
I'm  fair  famished."  From  the  bottom  of  a  tin  box  he 
took  out  a  sliver  of  salt  fish  and  a  scone  of  bread. 
"  Faith,  but  that's  fine  luck  —  just  enough  for  a  bite  for 
myself.  Not  a  great  deal  of  it  —  a  child  could  eat  it,  and 
Father  Doherty  himself  wouldn't  say  it  was  too  much 
for  a  fast-day,  but  'twill  go  fine  after  the  wet,  hard  day 
—  fine,  fine."  He  shook  out  the  last  pinch  of  tea  from 
the  caddy  into  the  kettle. 

The  water  was  slow  to  boil,  and  the  smoke  of  the  fire 
drove  him  to  the  hatchway  for  fresh  air.  "  I'll  have  to 


24  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

get  a  little  chimbly  for  this  place  another  year  —  the 
smoke  of  it  sometimes  is  fair  overpowerin'."  He  gazed 
out  of  the  hatch  and  across  the  dark  waters.  "  A  wee 
little  bit  more  and  I  could  see  Costla  Bay  with  the  lights 
in  the  Coast-Guard  station  —  yes.  Mora,  'tis  little  is 
the  sleep  you'll  be  giving  yourself  this  night  nor  another 
night  till  I'm  home  again.  Sure  the  childer  themselves, 
the  wee  little  ones,  will  be  asking  for  their  father  when 
they  hear  the  wind  scream  over  the  rocks  of  Costla. 
And  off  in  America  now  —  what  place  was  it  that  young 
man  said  ?  —  some  saint  city  away,  oh,  far  away,  from 
the  coast.  But  never  mind.  '  If  ever  you  come  t'  Amer- 
ica, Captain  Donohue  — '  says  he.  '  I'm  no  captain,'  says 
I.  'I'm  master  with  one  grown  lad  for  a  crew,  of  a 
little  black  hooker  —  a  fisherman  of  Costla  am  I,'  says  I. 
'  Well,  captain  or  no  captain,'  says  he,  '  there's  command- 
ers in  the  R'yal  Navy,'  says  he,  '  and  in  every  other  navy,' 
says  he,  '  that  wouldn't  crossed  Galway  Bay  to-day  for 
all  their  hopes  of  promotion.  And  if  ever  you  come  to 
St.  Louis  ' —  that's  it,  St.  Louis,  by  my  soul  — '  if  ever 
you  come  to  St.  Louis,  be  sure  to  come  to  me,  and  'tis 
myself  and  Dan  Costello's  children  will  have  the  warm 
welcome  for  you  —  yes,'  he  said  that.  Oh,  oh,  the  poor 
childer  that's  the  thousands  of  miles  livin*  from  where 
their  father  was  born.  And  havin'  the  law  to  fight  with 
it!  Wirra,  wirra,  but  the  Lord  needs  to  be  good  to 
childer  that's  got  the  law  to  fight.  Yes,  indeed,  yes." 

He  took  another  long  look  toward  Costla  ere  he  dropped 
below.  He  noted  the  progress  of  the  boiling  kettle  of 
tea.  "  In  a  minute  'twill  be  done.  A  bite  to  eat,  a  sup 


A  FISHERMAN  OF  COSTLA  25 

to  drink,  and  my  pipe,  and  then  to  a  good  sleep.  My 
pipe,  where  is  it?  Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure,  where  I  left  it  on 
the  shelf  in  the  bunk."  He  reached  across  the  bunk  and 
began  to  feel  about  for  the  pipe.  The  weight  of  his  arm 
on  the  blankets  caused  him  to  disturb  a  small  body  that 
was  huddled  deep  among  the  bed-clothes.  The  body, 
squirming,  startled  the  fisherman.  "My  soul!  what's 
that!" 

The  bundle  rolled  over  and  spoke.     "  It's  me,  father." 

"  Tammie,  Tammie,  you  scart  me  most  to  death. 
How  on  earth  came  you  here,  Tammie?" 

"  I  asked  mother  could  I  come,  and  she  said  yes,  and 
the  driver  of  the  mail-cart  took  me  up.  I  wanted  to  be 
sure  you  got  to  Galway.  You  know  you  said  maybe  the 
gale  would  last  so  you  mightn't  be  home  for  three  days, 
and  I  wanted  to  go  back  and  tell  mother  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

"  Back  to  Costla  in  the  morning?  And  if  the  mail- 
car  is  full  and  no  room  for  the  likes  of  you  ?  " 

"  Then  I  can  walk,  father." 

"  The  Lord  save  us,  but  it's  little  boys  that  makes  us  y 
ashamed,  with  the  faith  they  has,"  said  Gerald.  "  Here, 
come  out  of  that  bunk  that's  as  wet  as  the  wide  bay, 
till  I  put  in  it  some  of  my  old  clothes  from  the  locker  — 
the  locker,  the  only  dry  place  in  the  hooker,  and  it  isn't 
over-dry  at  that.  They'll  be  poor  bed-clothes,  but  they'll 
be  half-way  dry  for  you,  alanna.  And  how  did  you  come 
aboard  anonst  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  was  waiting  for  you  since  the  mail-cart  got  in  at 
eight  o'clock.  I  saw  you  when  you  came  in  the  dock. 


26  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

and  then  I  saw  you  and  the  American  gentleman  go  to 
the  hotel.  I  knew  you  would  be  back  here  when  I  saw 
you  go  to  the  station  with  him,  so  I  came  down  here  and 
I  was  waiting  for  you  here,  but  I  fell  asleep  while  I  was 
waiting,  father." 

"  Oh,  the  poor  b'y.  And  you're  hungry,  I'll  be  bound, 
Tammie?  " 

"A  little,  father." 

"'A  little,  father'?  Come  here  by  the  fire.  You're 
fair  famished.  Don't  try  and  hide  it  from  me.  Can't  I 
see  it  in  the  mouth  and  the  eyes  of  you  — 'tis  fair  famished 
you  are.  Here  now,  here's  the  fine  dried  hake,  and  the 
fine  scone  your  mother  baked  yesterday  mornin',  and  the 
fine  hot  tea.  Eat  and  drink  now  and  then  go  to  sleep 
with  you." 

"  And  won't  you  eat  too,  father?  " 

"  Me  eat?  Sure,  didn't  me  and  the  gentleman  ate  till 
we  almost  busted  at  the  hotel?  " 

"At  the  hotel?  What  did  you  have  there,  father? 
Was  it  fine?  and  a  lot  of  it?  " 

"  '  Fine?  and  a  lot  of  it?  '  There  was  everything  any 
man  could  think  of,  and  a  lot  some  men  could  never  think 
of.  There  was  turkey  and  duck  and  puddin' — " 

"  Plum-puddin',  father?  " 

"  Plum-puddin'  and  three  other  kinds." 

"Ooh!" 

"  And  pasties  and  grapes  and  jellies  and  oranges  and 
bananas  and  cake  —  oh,  there  was  lashin's  of  everything, 
things  I  don't  know  the  names  of  at  all." 


A  FISHERMAN  OF  COSTLA  27 

"  M-m-m  —  but  you  did  eat  a  lot  for  the  little  time 
you  was  in  the  hotel,  father." 

"For  the  little  time?  Of  course.  We  raced  through 
it  so  we  wouldn't  miss  the  cars.  And  how  did  you  come 
to  know  we  was  in  the  hotel  only  a  little  time?  " 

"  Don't  you  remember  me  saying  I  was  outside  in  the 
road  to  see  you  come  out  and  go  up  the  street  with  the 
gentleman  ?  " 

"  I  forgot  that.  But  you  was  outside  all  the  time? 
Watchin'  your  betters?  Tammie,  don't  ever  you  do  that 
again.  You  don't  know  what  private  business  they  might 
be  wantin'  to  talk  over.  Don't  ever  you  do  that  again, 
Tammie.  And  have  another  mug  o'  tea  now." 

"  Yes,  father." 

"  And  ate  up  the  fish  and  bread." 

"  It's  all  eat  up,  father." 

"  Sure,  and  so  it  is.  O  Tammie,  only  all  the  shops  is 
closed,  but  'tis  we  two,  just  the  two  of  us  down  here, 
would  be  having  the  fine  supper  now  —  me,  with  pound 
notes  in  my  pocket.  But  there's  a  little  droppeen  o'  tea 
left,  alanna.  Take  it  and  finish  it  up  now,  like  a  good 
b'y." 

"  I'm  full,  father." 

"  And  you're  sleepy  by  the  looks  of  you." 

"  A  little,  father.  I  was  up  at  four  o'clock  this  morn- 
ing. I  was  up  that  time  you  left  this  morning  to  see 
if  the  hooker  was  all  right  when  you  heard  the  gale  com- 
ing on.  I  saw  you  goin'  out,  though  you  didn't  see  me, 
'cause  it  was  dark  —  ooh,  wasn't  it  dark,  m-m-m  — "  He 


28  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

winked  his  eyes,  rested  his  head  against  the  edge  of  the 
bunk,  and  suddenly  went  off  to  sleep. 

The  fisherman  bent  over  him.  "  The  poor  b'y,  tired 
to  death  he  is  with  his  five-and-twenty  mile  and  the  mail- 
car  this  evenin'.  Well,  well,  the  faith  of  a  child!  "  He 
gathered  him  up  and  laid  him  tenderly  in  the  bunk. 
"  'Tis  old  rags  that's  under  you,  poor  b'y,  but  they're  half 
dry  and  maybe  they'll  save  you  from  going  back  to  your 
mother  with  your  lungs  choked  with  the  cold." 

He  turned  to  the  fire.  From  the  board  that  had  served 
as  a  plate  for  Tamlmie  he  swept  off  the  crumbs  and  swal- 
lowed them  with  relish.  What  was  left  of  the  tea  he 
poured  out  into  a  mug  —  less  than  half  a  mug  it  made  — 
and  drank  it  off.  "  My  soul,  but  that's  fine."  He 
smacked  his  lips  over  it.  He  kept  smacking  while  he 
was  making  ready  to  light  his  pipe  by  a  dying  ember  that 
he  coaxed  from  the  hearth.  With  his  pipe  going,  he 
leaned  back  against  the  planks  of  the  hooker's  side,  and 
through  the  smoke  and  half  light  regarded  the  face  of 
the  lad  as  it  shone  from  among  the  pile  of  old  clothes 
in  the  bunk. 

"  And  to  think  of  him  walking  the  twenty-five_mile 
over  the  road  to  Costla  in  the  mornin'.  Many's  the  time 
I  walked  it  myself  at  his  age,  and  I  know  what  it  is.  But 
it's  a  stout  lad  I  was  to  him  with  his  little  thin  legs,  and 
the  little  feet  and  toes  blue  with  the  cold,  and  maybe 
nobody  along  the  whole  way  to  know  how  far  he  came, 
and  to  ask  him  in  to  have  a  bite  to  ate  and  a  sup  to  drink. 
Glory  be,  but  is  that  water?" 

He  shifted  about  and  felt  his  back.     "  Water,  no  less 


A  FISHERMAN  OF  COSTLA  29 

and  there  isn't  a  j'int  in  her  old  bones  the  sea  didn't 
squeeze  through  to-day.  But  she's  the  greatest  little  one 
of  them  all  out  of  Costla.  I  wouldn't  give  her  for  some 
that's  twice  as  young.  Thirty-five  year  this  summer. 
Thirty-five  year  —  the  prime  of  life.  Many's  the  gale 
my  own  father  sailed  her.  And  many's  the  gale  myself 
has  sailed  her,  and  many  a  gale  I'll  sail  her  yet,  with 
God's  blessing.  Sure  I'd  like  to  know  the  time  she  made 
across  the  bay  this  day.  My,  but  she  fair  leaped  across 
the  bay.  Ah,  ah,  but  the  bones  of  me  is  getting  old. 
They  crack  with  every  move  I  make  —  with  every  move, 
yes.  And  that  young  man  from  America,  God-speed  to 
him.  And  the  poor  childer  of  Dan  Costello  —  the  poor, 
poor  childer  —  the  Lord  pity  them !  If  I  was  gone  now, 
'tis  the  hard  time  my  own  would  have.  You're  a  brave 
little  man,  Tammie,  but  what  could  you  do  ag'in'  the 
world  —  poor,  poor  Tammie  —  poor,  poor  childer." 

His  eyes,  turning  from  the  figure  in  the  bunk,  regarded 
intently  the  red  glow  of  the  fire  on  the  hearth.  The  glow 
became  duller  under  his  gaze  and  the  air  about  him  grew 
colder.  It  occurred  to  him  that  a  little  more  wood  on 
the  fire  would  be  a  fine  thing,  but  when  he  came  to  look  in 
the  locker  there  was  no  more  wood.  "  Glory  be,"  he 
said,  softly,  "  but  it  went  fast."  He  thought  to  close  the 
hatch,  but,  looking  up,  his  eyes  were  caught  and  held  by 
the  shine  of  the  stars.  "The  blessed  little  stars!"  he 
whispered;  "even  when  it's  windy  and  cold  it  is,  ye're 
there  to  make  the  night  fine.  And  the  little  bit  of  can- 
dle " —  he  strove  to  shield  it  for  a  moment  from  the 
wind  — "  'tis  no  use,  'twill  soon  be  out.  And  it's  falling 


3o  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

asleep  anonst  to  myself  I  am  and  maybe  the  little  lad  cold 
in  the  bunk." 

He  tucked  the  blankets  more  closely  about  the  boy, 
laid  the  tips  of  his  fingers  on  the  flushed  cheek,  and  whis- 
pering softly,  "  Tammie,  alanna,  is  it  asleep  you  are  ?  " 
bent  his  head  low  for  an  answer.  The  boy's  gentle 
breathing  was  the  best  answer.  "  That's  good,  and  now, 
maybe,  I'll  get  a  bit  of  sleep  myself — 'twas  the  long  wet 
day  this  day  —  yes,  the  long  wet  day." 

But,  tired  as  he  was,  he  forced  eyes  and  ears  to  do  duty 
for  a  while  yet.  He  must  make  certain  that  all  was  well. 
Listening,  he  made  out  that  beneath  the  old  hull  the  tide 
was  still  running.  He  hearkened  for  some  minutes  to 
the  sound  of  it.  Less  noise  there  was  now  to  be  sure, 
but  wasn't  that  to  be  expected  with  the  slack  water  com- 
ing on?  Once  more  he  gazed  up  through  the  hatchway. 
The  stars  were  yet  shining — not  so  shiny  maybe  as  a 
while  ago,  but  how  else  would  they  be  and  the  gray  dawn 
coming  on?  The  fire,  dying  a  minute  back,  was  dead 
altogether  now,  but  who  could  blame  it  with  not  so  much 
as  the  shaving  of  a  match  to  put  on  it?  Sure  even  a  man 
would  die  and  he  wasn't  fed  —  yes.  And  the  candle,  the 
little  bit  of  candle,  going  —  no,  but  gone  out  entirely. 
And  my  own  pipe  gone  out  with  it. 

He  lay  quiet  for  a  time  before  he  moved  a  hand  to 
take  the  pipe  from  his  lips,  but  somehow  he  couldn't  get  a 
match  to  light.  Well,  there'd  been  smoking  enough. 
And,  after  all,  why  should  the  pipe  be  going  when  every- 
thing else  was  gone?  Sure  all  the  light  and  heat  was 
gone.  Pipe,  candle,  stars,  fire  —  all  gone  out.  But 


A  FISHERMAN  OF  COSTLA  31 

Tammie  —  listen  —  yes,  he  was  sleeping  fine.  The  poor 
boy,  poor  Tammie  —  the  poor,  poor  little  Costello  childer 
—  the  poor  fatherless  childer  everywhere  —  to  all  poor 
childer  may  God  be  good  —  may  God  be  good  — 

Gradually  the  weary  head  sagged  until  it  was  fairly 
on  the  shoulder  nearest  the  bunk ;  gradually  the  legs,  which 
had  been  drawn  up  at  the  knees,  straightened  out  until 
they  found  a  brace  against  the  edge  of  the  hearthstone; 
unnoticed,  the  pipe  slipped  from  the  relaxing  fingers; 
softly  the  lips  murmured  beneath  the  beard  — "  to  all  poor 
childer  may  God  be  good  " —  the  shaggy  head  settled  into 
the  peak  of  the  hooker — "  may  God  be  good  " —  and  this 
fisherman  of  Costla,  his  day's  work  done,  was  off  for  his,*-  \ 
night's  rest.  The  morrow  would  bring  its  own  labors.  ' 
—  JAMES  B.  CONNOLLY. 


n 

FRANCE'S  FIGHTING  WOMAN  DOCTOR 

The  American  public  has  just  heard  of  Dr.  Nicole 
Girard-Mangin,  the  woman  doctor  who  was  mobilized  and 
sent  to  the  front  by__mistake,  and  who  proved  herself  so 
fearless  and  useful  that  she  was  kept  there  for  two  years 
amid  bursting  shells  and  rattling  mitrailleuses.  She  is 
being  cited  spectacularly  as  a  dramatic  proof  that  women 
can  take  men's  parts,  and  do  men's  work,  and  know  the 
(  man's  joy  of  being  useful.)  But  she  is  much  more  than 
a  woman  doing  a  man's  work.  She  is  a  human  being  of 
the  highest  type,  giving  to  her  country  the  highest  sort  of 
service,  and  remaining  normal,  sane,  and  well-balanced. 

Long  before  the  tornado  of  the  war  burst  over  the 
world,  Paris  knew  her  in  many  varying  phases  which  now, 
as  we  look  back,  we  see  to  have  been  the  unconscious  prep- 
aration for  the  hour  of  crisis.  Personally  I  knew  of  her, 
casually,  as  the.publiojrjiritej  young  doctor  who  was  at- 
tached to  the  Pansjycee^where^  my  children  go _to  school, 
and  who  was  pushing  the  "  fresh-air  "  movement  for  the 
city  poor.  People  who  met  her  in  a  social  way  knew  her 
as  an  attractive  woman  with  a  well-proportioned  figure, 
lovely  hair,  and  clear  brown  eyes,  whom  one  met  once  ox 
twice  a  week  at  the  theater  or  in  the  homes  of  mutual 
friends,  and  who  enjoyed  a  hearty  laugh  and  cheerful, 

31 


FRANCE'S  FIGHTING  WOMAN  DOCTOR      33 

chatting  talk.     Other  people  who  saw  her  every  morning 
.    in  her  laboratory  garb,  serious,  intent,  concentrated,  knew 
her  as  one  of  those  scientific  investigators  who  can  not 
rest  while  the  horrible  riddle  of  cancer  is  unsolved. 

Those  who  saw  her  in  the  afternoon  among  the  swarm- 
ing sick  and  poor  of  the  clinique  of  the  great  Beaujon 
Hospital,  knew  her  as  one  of  those  lovers  of  their  kind 
who  can  not  rest  as  long  as  the  horrible  apathy  of  public 
opinion  about  tuberculosis  continues.  People  who  inves- 
tigated cures  for  city  ills  and  who  went  to  visit  the  model 
tenement  house  for  the  very  poor,  near  the  St.  Ouen  gate 
of  Paris,  knew  her  as  the  originator  and  planner  of  that 
admirable  enterprise,  whose  energy  and  forcefulness  saw 
it  financed  and  brought  to  practical  existence.  Observers 
who  knew  her  in  the  big  international  Feminist  Con- 
ferences in  European  capitals,  saw  an  alert,  upright,  quick- 
eyed  Parisienne,  whose  pretty  hats  showed  no  sign  of  the 
erudition  of  the  head  under  them.  Friends  knew  her  as 
the  gently  bred  woman  who,  although  driven  by  no 
|  material  necessity,  renounced  the  easy,  sheltered,  com- 
fortable life  of  the  home-keeping  woman  for  an  incessant, 
beneficent  activity,  the  well-ordered  regularity  of  which 
alone  kept  it  from  breaking  down  her  none  too  robust 
health.  And  those  intimates  who  saw  her  in  her  home, 
saw  her  the  most  loved  of  sisters  and  daughters,  the  most 
devoted  of  mothers,  adored  by  the  little  son  to  whom 
she  has  been  father  and  mother  ever  since  he  was  four 
years  old. 

No  one  dreamed  of  war,  but  if  the  very  day  and  hour 
had   been   known   for  years,    Dr.   Girard-Mangin  could 


34  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

hardly  have  prepared  herself  more  completely  for  the 
ordeal.  Unconsciously  she  had  "  trained  "  for  it,  as  the 
runner  trains  for  his  race.  She  was  not  very  strong, 
slightly  built,  with  some  serious  constitutional  weaken- 
ing, but  she  filled  every  day  full  to  the  brim  with  exact- 
ing and  fatiguing  work.  She  had  two  great  factors  in 
her  favor.  One  of  them  was  that  enviable  gift  which 
Nature  gives  occasionally  to  remarkable  people,  the  ca- 
pacity to_live  with  very  little  sleep.  The  other  is  even 
more  noteworthy  in  a  doctor  —  in  whom  close  acquaint- 
ance with  the  laws  of  health  seems  often  to  breed  con- 
tempt. 

Dr.  Girard-Mangin  is  that  rare  bird,  a  doctor  who  be- 
lieves profoundly,  seriously,  in  the  advice  which  she  gives 
to  others,  in  the  importance  of  those  simple,  humdrum 
laws  of  daily  health  which  only  very  extraordinary  people 
have  the  strength  of  mind  to  obey.  Ngyei^jiever,  she 
says,  as  though  it  were  a  matter  of  course,  has  snTallowed 
fatigue,  or  overoccupation,  or  inertia,  or  boredom  to  in- 
terfere with  her  early  morning  deep-breathing  and  physi- 
cal exercises,  and  her  tonic  cold  bath.  Never-never,  no 
matter  how  long  or  exhausting  the  day,  has  sHe  rotteH  into 
bed,  dead  beat,  too  tired  to  go  through  the  simple  pro- 
cesses of  the  toilet,  which  make  sleep  so  much  more  re- 
freshing. No  matter  how  absorbed  in  her  work,  she  has 
always  taken  the  time  at  regular  intervals  toj^lax,  to  chat 
sociably  with  quite  ordinary  people,  to  go  to  the  theater, 
to  hear  music.  She  has  always  breakfasted  and  lunched 
with  her  little  boy,  has  steered  him  through  his  spelling 
and  arithmetic,  has  gone  on  walks  with  him,  has  been  his 


FRANCE'S  FIGHTING  WOMAN  DOCTOR     35 

comrade  and  "  pal."  This  has  been  as  good  for  her  as 
for  him,  naturally.  Every_j>ummer  she  has  had  the 
courageous  good  sense  to_take  a^acation  in  the  country. 
In  short,  she  is  a  doctor  who  takes  to  her  own  heart  the 
advice  about  rational  life  which  doctors  so  often  reserve 
for  their  patients. 

To  this  woman,  tempered  to  a  steel-like  strength  by 
self-imposed  discipline  and  by  a  regular,  welt-ordered  life, 
came  the  great  summons.  And  it  found  her  ready  to  the 
last  nerve  in  her  strong,  delicate  little  hand.  You  have 
read,  probably,  how  on  that  "  Day  of  Doom  "  when 
France  called  out  her  men,  a  concierge  received,  among 
mobilization  papers  for  ajl^  the  men  in  the  big  apartment 
house,  one  sending  Dr.  Girard-Mangin  (presumably  also 
a  man,  by  the  name)  out  to  a  military  hospital  in  the 
Vqsges  mountains.  The  notice  of  mobilization  was 
handed  to  a  woman,  a  patriotic  woman  who  long  ago  had 
heard  the  call  to  fight  for  France's  best  interests.  She 
had  seen  her  brother  go  before  her  into  the  righting  ranks 
and  she  followed  him,  into  danger  and  service.  She  said 
a  quick  good-by  to  her  friends,  to  her  parents,  to  her  son, 
her  only  child,  a  fine  boy  of  fourteen  then,  from  whom 
she  had  never  before  been  separated. 

Will  every  mother  who  reads  these  lines  stop  here  and 
think  what  this  means? 

There  is  no  need  to  repeat  in  detail  here  what  has  al- 
ready been  told  of  the  first  three  months  of  her  service  — 
her  arrival  at  the  field  hospital,  disorganized,  submerged 
by  the  terrible,  ever-renewed  flood  of  wounded  men,  of 
the  astonishment  of  the  doctor  in  charge.  "  What,  a 


36  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

woman!  This  is  no  place  for  a  woman.  But,  good  God! 
if  you  know  anything  about  surgery,  roll  up  your  sleeves 
and  stay !  " 

There  she  stayed  for  three  months,  those  blasting  first 
three  months  of  the  war,  when  French  people  put  forth 
>/  undreamed-of  strength  to  meet  a  crisis  of  undreamed-of 
horror.  Out  there  in  that  distant  military  hospital,  toil- 
ing incessantly  in  great  heat,  with  insufficient  supplies, 
bearing  the  mental  and  moral  shock  of  the  first  encounter 
with  the  incredible  miseries  of  war,  that  modern,  highly 
organized  woman,  separated  for  the  first  time  from  her 
family,  from  her  child,  fearing  everything  for  them  and 
for  her  country,  had  no  word,  no  tidings  whatever,  till 
the  28th  of  August.  Then  no  knowledge  of  her  son,  of 
her  parents,  only  a  notice  that  the  Government  had 
retreated  from  Paris  to  Bordeaux!  Comforting  news 
that,  for  the  first!  Next  they  knew  that  Rheims  was 
taken.  Then  one  of  the  men  whose  wounds  she  dressed 
told  her  that  he  had  been  able  to  see  the  Eiffel  Tower 
from  where  he  fell.  This  sounded  as  though  the  next 
news  could  be  nothing  but  the  German  entry  into  Paris. 

All  France  throbbed  with  straining,  despairing  effort, 
far  beyond  its  normal  strength,  during  those  first  three 
months;  and  to  do  the  man's  part  she  took,  the  delicate 
woman  doctor,  laboring  incessantly  among  the  bleeding 
wrecks  of  human  bodies,  needed  all  her  will-power  to 
pull  her  through. 

Then  the  wild  period  of  fury  and  haste  and  nervous, 
emotional  exaltation  passed,  and  France  faced  another 
ordeal,  harder  for  her  temperament  even  than  the  first 


FRANCE'S  FIGHTING  WOMAN  DOCTOR       37 

fierce  onset  of  the  unequal  struggle  —  the  long  period  of 
patient  endurance  of  the  unendurable.  The  miracle  of 
the  Marne  had  been  wrought;  Paris  was  saved;  the  sting 
and  stimulant  of  immediate,  deadly  danger  was  past ; 
the  fatigue  from  the  supernatural  effort  of  those  first 
months  dimmed  every  eye,  deadened  all  nerves.  Then 
France  tapped  another  reservoir  of  national  strength  and 
began  patiently,  constructively  to  "  organize  "  the  war. 
And  that  daughter  of  France  bent  her  energies  to  help  in 
this  need,  as  in  the  first. 

A  rough  rearrangement  of  competences  was  attempted 
everywhere  on  the  front.  Dentists  no  longer  dug 
trenches,  bakers  were  set  to  baking  instead  of  currying 
horses,  and  expert  telegraphers  stopped  making  ineffectual 
efforts  to  cook.  It  came  out  then  that  the  real  specialty 
of  the  valiant  little  woman  doctor  who  had  been  doing 
such  fine  work  in  the  operating-room  was  not  surgery  at 
all.  "  I'm  no  surgeon,  you  know!  "  she  says,  and  leaves 
it  to  her  friends  to  tell  you  of  the  extraordinary  record  of 
her  efficiency  in  that  field,  the  low  percentage  of  losses 
in  her  surgical  cases.  If  you  mention  this,  she  says,  "  Ah, 
that's  just  because  I'm  not  a  born  surgeon.  I  have  to 
take  very  special  care  of  my  cases  to  be  equal  to  the 
job."  It  was  discovered  that  her_£reat  specialty  was 
contagious  diseases.  There  was  great  need  for  a  special- 
ist of  that  sort  out  at  Verjun,  where,  alas!  a  typhoid 
epidemic  had  broken  out.  This  was  before  the  extra 
precautions  about  inoculations,  which  were  taken  later. 

Dr.  Girard-Mangin  was  sent  to  Verdun  on  November 
ist,  1914,  and  was  there  steadily  for_  mojre  than  a  year, 


38  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

until  the  28th  of  February,  1916.  She  found  her  sick 
men  on  mattresses,  in  tents,  on  such  low  ground  that  they 
were  often  literally  in  water.  Whenever  there  was  freez- 
ing weather,  those  who  cared  for  them  slid  about  on 
sheets  of  ice.  Above  them,  on  higher  ground,  were  some 
rough  old  barracks,  empty,  partly  remodeled,  said  to  have 
been  left  there  by  the  Prussians  in  1871.  "Why  don't 
we  move  the  sick  up  there?  "  she  asked,  and  was  met  by 
all  the  usual  dragging,  clogging  reasons  given  by  ad- 
ministrative inertia. 

The  sheds  were  not  ready  to  occupy;  there  were  no 
expert  carpenters  to  get  them  ready;  it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  heat  them ;  no  order  for  the  change  had  come  from 
Headquarters  —  furthermore,  a  reason  not  mentioned, 
the  sheds,  being  on  higher  ground,  were  mojje  exposed  to 
shell-fire.  Dr.  Girard-Mangin  had  had  some  experience 
with  administrative  inertia  in  her  struggles  for  better 
housing  for  the  poor;  and  long  before  the  war  she  had 
known  what  it  was  to  put  herself  voluntarily  in  danger 
—  the  scar  from  a  bad  tubercjjlar  infection  on  her  hand 
is  the  honorable  proof  of  that.  She  knew  that  the  sick 
men  would  be  better  off  in  the  barracks  on  higher  ground. 
So  she  took  them  there.  Just  like  that. 

She  was  to  have  the  entire  care  of  the  typhoid  epidemic-, 
and  the  only  help  which  could  be  given  her  was  to  come 
from  twenty  men,  absolutely  unassorted  —  such  a  score 
as  you  would  gather  by  walking  down  any  street  and 
picking  up  the  first  twenty  men  you  met.  There  were 
several  farm-laborers,  a  barber,  an  accountant,  miscel- 
laneous factory  hands.  The  only  person  remotely  ap- 


FRANCE'S  FIGHTING  WOMAN  DOCTOR       39 

proaching  a  nurse  was  a  man  who  had  had  the  training 
for  a  pharmacist,  but  as  he  had  never  been  able  to  stay 
sober  long  enough  to  take  his  examinations,  you  may  not 
be  surprised  that  he  was  the  least  useful  of  them  all. 

These  twenty  casually  selected  human  beings  went 
unwillingly  up  the  hill  toward  the  barracks,  ironic,  mock- 
ing, lazy,  indifferent,  as  human  beings  unelectrified  by 
purpose  are  apt  to  be.  But,  although  they  did  not  know 
it,  there  marched  at  their  head  an  iron  will,  a  steel-like 
purpose,  and  an  intelligence  which  was  invincible.  They 
took  this  to  be  but  a  smallish,  youngish  woman  in  uni- 
form, and  were  all  in  great  guffaws  at  the  comic  idea  of 
being  under  her  orders. 

Of  course,  to  begin  with,  she  did  not  know  one  of  her 
men  from  another,  but  she  studied  them  closely  as  they 
worked,  driven  along  by  her  direction,  setting  up  the 
rough  camp-stoves,  stopping  the  worst  of  the  holes  in  the 
walls,  arranging  the  poor  apologies  for  mattresses,  and 
cutting  off  the  tops  of  gasoline-cans  for  heating  water  — 
for  our  woman  doctor  was  asked  to  take  care  of  several 
hundred  typhoid  cases  and  was  not  provided  with  so 
much  as  a  bowl  that  would  hold  water.  Presently,  as 
they  worked,  she  noticed  that  there  were  but  nineteen 
men  there.  All  day  she  studied  their  faces,  their  bear- 
ing, what  was  written  on  them  for  the  seeing  eye  to  read. 
At  night,  at  supper-time,  there  were  twenty  men.  Those 
clear  brown  eyes  swept  around  the  circle  and  pounced  on 
a  mild-looking  poilu  innocently  taking  his  soup  with  the 
others. 

"  Where  have  you  been  all  day  ?  "  she  asked  him. 


40  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

He  fairly  turned  pale  with  astonishment,  "  Why,  how 
did  you — ?  I've  been  right  here,  working!  "  he  tried  to 
bluster  her  down. 

"  No,  you  haven't.  You  haven't  been  here  since  a 
quarter  past  ten  this  morning,"  she  assured  him. 

He  hung  his  head  a  moment,  then  looked  an  ugly  de- 
fiance. "  Well,  I've  been  in  to  Verdun  to  spend  the  day 
with  a  friend.  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?  " 

"  I'm  going  to  have  you  punished  for  disobeying  an 
officer,"  she  said  promptly,  though  so  little  military  had 
been  her  beneficent  life,  that  she  had  no  more  idea  than 
you  or  I  or  any  other  woman  would  have  of  what  pun- 
ishment could  be  given  in  such  a  case. 

"Officer's  orders!"  said  the  man.  "What  officer?" 
All  the  men  laughed. 

"  I'm  your  officer,"  she  said,  and  went  away  to  tele- 
phone to  the  military  authority  in  charge  of  such  cases. 

"  I  can't  be  expected  to  have  discipline  if  I'm  not 
backed  up,"  she  said.  "  This  is  a  test  case.  It's  now  or 
never." 

The  answer  was  a  non-com  and  a  guard  marching  up 
to  the  barracks,  saluting  the  military  doctor,  and,  with 
all  due  military  ceremony,  carrying  off  the  offender  for 
a  week  in  prison.  Dr.  Girard-Mangin  laughs  still  at  the 
recollection  of  the  consternation  among  the  nineteen  who 
were  left.  "  I  never  had  any  trouble  about  discipline, 
after  that,"  she  says.  "  Of  course  there  were  the  utter 
incompetents  to  be  weeded  out.  For  that  I  followed  the 
»/  time-honored  army  custom  of  sending  my  worst  man 
whenever  the  demand  from  Headquarters  came  for  a 


FRANCE'S  FIGHTING  WOMAN  DOCTOR      41 

i  good,  competent  person  to  be  sent  to  other  work!  Be- 
fore long  I  had  reduced  the  force  of  nurses  to  twelve. 
Those  twelve  I  kept  for  all  the  time  of  my  service  there, 
and  we  parted  at  the  end  old  friends  and  tried  comrades. 
IJiave  never Jpst  track  of_them  since.  They  always  write 
me  once  in  a  while,  wherever  they  are." 

As  soon  as  it  grew  dark  enough,  that  first  night,  for 
the  ambulances  to  dash  out  through  the  blackness,  over 
the  shell-riddled  roads  to  the  abris,  close  to  the  front,  the 
stricken  men  began  to  come  in.  Before  dawn,  that  very 
first  night,  there  were  fifty-five  terrible  typhoid  cases 
brought  into  the  bare  sheds.  Then  it  was  that  Dr. 
Girard-Mangin,  working  single-handed  with  her  score 
of  crude,  untrained  helpers,  needed  all  her  capacity  for 
going  without  sleep.  Then  it  was  that  her  men,  seeing 
her  at  work,  stopped  laughing  because  she  was  a  woman 
and  admired  her  because  she  was  a  woman  doing  won- 

•  derful  things;  then,  best  of  all,  forgot  that  she  was  a 
woman,  and  took  her  simply  for  the  matchless  leader  that 
she  is,  in  the  battle  against  disease.  I  think  it  was  not 
wholly  the  guard,  marching  away  the  disobedient  man 
to  prison,  who  was  responsible  for  the  fact  that  our  little 
woman  doctor  had  no  further  difficulty  with  discipline. 

The  condition  of  the  typhoid  patients  was  harrowing- 
beyond  words.  A  man  going  out  with  his  squad  to  a 
front-line  trench  would  be  stricken  down  with  fever  on 
arriving.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to  return  until  his 
squad  was  relieved  and  he  could  be  carried  to  the  rear 
on  a  comrade's  back.  There  he  was,  there  he  must  re- 
main, for  the  three  or  four  or  five  days  of  his  squad's 


42  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

"  turn  "  in  the  front  lines.  Can  you  imagine  the  condi- 
tion of  a  man  with  typhoid  fever,  who  has  lain  in  a 
trench  in  the  mud  for  four  days,  with  no  shelter  from 
the  rain  or  snow  but  an  overcoat  spread  over  him,  with 
no  care  beyond  an  occasional  drink  of  water  from  a 
comrade's  flask?  For  your  own  sake  I  hope  you  can  not 
imagine  it.  And  I  will  not  go  into  details.  Enough  to 
say  that  such  men  were  brought  in  by  the  tens,  by  the 
twenties,  by  the  fifties,  filthy  beyond  words,  at  the  limit 
of  exhaustion,  out  of  their  heads  with  weakness  and  fever 
and  horror. 

And  there  to  stem  that  black  tide  of  human  misery 
stands  this  little  upright,  active,  valiant,  twentieth-cen- 
tury woman.  I  think,  although  we  are  not  of  her  na- 
tion, we  may  well  be  proud  of  her  as  a  fellow-being  wha 
had  voluntarily  renounced  ease  to  choose  the  life  which 
had  made  her  fit  to  cope  with  the  crisis  of  that  night  — 
and  of  the  more  than  four  hundred  days  and  nights  fol- 
lowing. For  cope  with  it  she  did,  competently,  resolutely, 
successfully.  "  Oh  yes,  we  gave  them  cold  baths,"  she 
says,  when  you  ask  for  details.  "  We  managed  somehow. 
They  had  all  the  right  treatment,  cold  baths,  wet  packs, 
injections,  the  right  food  —  everything  very  primitive  at 
first,  of  course,  but  everything  you  ever  do  for  typhoid 
anywhere.  Our  percentage  of  losses  was  very  low  al- 
ways." 

"But  how?  How?  How  did  you  manage?"  you 
ask. 

"  Oh,  at  the  beginning  everything  was  very  rough. 
We  had  only  one  portable  galvanized-iron  bathtub. 


FRANCE'S  FIGHTING  WOMAN  DOCTOR      43 

Since  they  were  all  so  badly  infected,  there  was  less 
danger  in  bathing  them  all  in  the  same  tub  than  in  not 
fighting  the  fever  that  way.  And  then,  just  as  soon  as 
I  could  reach  the  outside  world  by  letter,  I  clamored  for 
more,  and  they  were  sent." 

"  But  how  could  you,  single-handed,  give  cold  baths 
to  so  many  men?  It's  a  difficult  matter,  giving  a  cold 
bath  to  a  typhoid  patient." 

"  I  wasn't  single-handed.  I  had  my  twelve  soldier- 
nurses." 

"  '  Nurses/  you  say !  Farm-laborers,  accountants,  bar- 
bers, drunken  druggists!  " 

"  But  I  got  rid  of  that  good-for-nothing  pharmacist  at 
once !  And  the  others  —  the  twelve  good  ones  —  they 
learned  what  to  do.  They  learned  how  to  give  the  simple 
remedies.  They  learned  how  to  do  the  other  things 
enough  to  give  me  a  report  —  how  to  take  temperatures, 
how  to  give  the  baths  at  the  right  degree  for  the  right 
time,  how  to  take  the  pulse." 

"  How  could  they  learn  all  that  ?  "  you  ask,  amazed. 

"  I  taught  them,"  says  Dr.  Girard-Mangin,  slightly 
surprised,  in  the  simplest,  most  matter-of-fact  tone. 

You  look  past  her,  out  there  to  that  hand-to-hand  strug- 
gle with  death  which  was  carried  on  by  the  one  in- 
domitable will  and  the  one  well-trained  mind,  strong 
enough  not  only  to  animate  this  woman's  body  before 
you,  but  those  other  bodies  and  ignorant,  indocile  minds. 

"  They  did  it  very  well,  too,"  she  assures  you,  and  you 
do  not  doubt  her. 

That  woman  could  teach  anybody  to  do  anything.    V 


44  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

You  come  back  to  details.  "  But  how  could  you  get 
enough  water  and  heat  it  for  so  many  baths,  on  just  those 
rough,  small,  heating-stoves?" 

"  Well,  we  were  at  it  all  the  time,  practically,  day  and 
night.  We  cut  the  tops  off  those  big  gasoline-cans  the 
automobilists  use,  and  stood  one  on  every  stove  up  and 
down  the  barracks.  There  wasn't  a  moment  when  water 
wasn't  being  heated,  or  used,  or  carried  away." 

"What  could  you  do  about  intestinal  hemorrhages?" 
you  ask.  "  You  must  have  had  many,  with  such  ad- 
vanced cases.  Your  farm-hand  nurses  couldn't — " 

"  I  never  tried  to  teach  them  how  to  handle  any  real 
crisis,  only  to  recognize  it  when  it  came,  and  go  quickly 
to  fetch  me.  I  taught  them  to  watch  carefully  and  at 
the  first  sign  of  blood  on  their  patients'  clothing  or  on  the 
mattress,  to  take  the  knapsack  out  from  under  the  sick 
man's  head  —  they  had  no  other  pillow,  of  course  —  to 
lay  him  down  flat,  and  then  to  run  and  call  me,  from 
wherever  I  was." 

"  You  must  have  had  almost  no  sleep  at  all." 

"  That  was  the  greatest  help  I  had,  being  able  to  get 
along  on  little  sleep.  And  I  got  more  work  out  of  my 
helpers  than  any  man  could,  for  they  were  ashamed  to 
ask  to  sleep  or  rest,  seeing  that  a  woman,  half  their  size, 
could  still  keep  going." 

"  But  how  jibout_¥Qur  famous  hygienic  regularity,  the 
morning  exercises  and  cold  baths  and  — " 

"  Oh,  as  soon  as  I  saw  I  was  in  for  a  long  period  of 
regular  service,  I  took  the  greatest  care  to  go  on  with  all, 
the  things  which  keep  one  fit  for  regular  service." 


FRANCE'S  FIGHTING  WOMAN  DOCTOR       45 

"  Morning  tubs?  " 

"  Yes,  morning  tubs !  I  slept  —  what  time  I  had  to 
sleep  —  in  an  abandoned  peasant's  house  in  an  evacuated 
village  near  the  hospital.  I  didn't  take  any  of  the  down- 
stairs rooms  because  people  are  likely  to  walk  right  into 
an  abandoned  house,  and  part  of  the  time  there  were 
soldiers  quartered  in  the  village.  Then  there  was  usually 
somebody  in  the  house  with  me.  The  other  times  I  had 
it  all  to  myself.  I  took  a  room  on  the  second  floor.  It 
happened  to  have  a  flight  of  steps  leading  up  to  it,  and 
another  one  going  out  of  it  into  the  attic.  Of  course, 
I_jever  had  any  heat,  and  the  drafts  from  those  two 
open  stairways  —  well,  it  was  like  sleeping  in  the  mid- 
dle of  a  city  square.  Sometimes  I  used  to  take  down  a 
bo_ttle  filled  with  hot  water,  but  the  bed  was  so  cold  that 
it  was  almost  instantly  chilled.  Many  a  time  I  have 
gone  to  sleep,  all  curled  up  in  a  ball,  holding  my  feet  in 
my  hands,  because  they  were  so_cpld,  and  wakened  to  find 
them  still  as  icy.  Oh,  the_cold !  That  is  the  worst 
enemy  of  all  at  the  front,  the  most  wearing,  the  most 
demoralizing,  the  most  dehumanizing,  because  it  lasts  so. 
With  other  things  —  hunger,  wounds,  danger  —  either 
it  kills  you,  or  it  passes.  But  the  cold  is  always  there." 

She  loses  herself  for  a  moment  in  brooding  recollection 
and  you  wonder  if  Jeanne  d'Arc  ever  did  anything  braver 
for  her  country  than  did, jh is  delicate,  stout-hearted  mod- 
ern woman,  sleeping  alone  for  months  and  months  in  bit- 
ter cold  in  a  deserted  house  in  a  deserted  village. 

She  comes  back  to  the  present.  '  And  it  was  there 
that  I  took  my  morning  tubs !  "  she  says  with  an  amused 


46  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

smile.  "  Of  course  the  water  froze  Jiard^  intCL  a  solid 
lump.  So  I  put  carbonate  de  potasse  into  it.  This  not 
only  kept  it  from  freezing,  but  made  it  alkaline,  so  that 
it  was  an  excellent  jletergent  and  stimulant  to  the  skin. 
I  assure  you,  after  a  night  in  which  I  had  been  incessantly 
called  from  one  bed  to  another,  when  I  felt  very  much 
done-up,  my  cold  sponge-bath  in  that  water  was  like  a 
resurrection.  I  was  made  over.  Then,  of  course,  no 
matter  how  busy  I  was,  I  took  care  of  my  feet  —  changed 
my  stockings  and  shoes  every  day.  Feet  are  one's  weak- 
est point  in  a  long  pull  like  tKaV' 

You  venture  to  remark  about  a  slight  limp  noticeable 
when  she  walks.  "  Yes,  it  comes  from  a  frozen  foot_ — 
I  have  to  admit  it.  But  it's  really  not  my  fault.  That 
was  later,  at  the  time  of  the  battle  at  Verdun.  There 
are  always  brief  crises,  when  you  have  to  give  your  all 
and  not  stop  to  think.  I  went  nine  days  then  without 
once  taking  off  my  shoes.  I  hadn't  my  other  pair  by  that 
time.  The  Boches  had  them,  probably." 

But  we  have  not  come  to  that  terrific  epic,  as  yet.  Be- 
fore that  second  tornado  burst  over  the  heads  of  the 
French  and  of  our  woman  doctor,  there  was  a  long,  hard, 
dull  period  of  four  hundred  and  seventy  days  of  con- 
tinuous service  —  for  Dr.  Girard-Mangin,  being  a  pioneer 
woman,  felt  in  honor  bound  to  do  more  than  a  man  would 
do.  In  the  three  years  and  more  of  her  war  service,  she 
had  just  three  weeks'  furlough,  seven  days  out  of  every 
year  to  see  her  son,  to  see  her  family,  to  relax.  Every 
other  day  of  that  long  procession  of  days,  she  has  been  on 


FRANCE'S  FIGHTING  WOMAN  DOCTOR      47 

duty,  active,  and,  as  befits  a  woman,  constructively  ac- 
tive. 

She  did  not  continue  resignedly  to  struggle  with  tin- 
can  drinking-cups,  and  one  bathtub  for  two  hundred  men. 
Neither  did  she  rely  on  the  proverbially  slow  mills  of  the 
Government  to  grind  her  out  the  necessary  supplies.  She 
was  not  only  the  army  doctor  in  charge  of  the  contagious 
cases  in  the  big  sanitary  section  and  hospital  near  Verdun, 
she  was  also  a  figure  of  international  importance,  the 
Presidente  of  the  Hygiene  Department  of  the  Cornell 
International  des  Femmes  —  her  predecessor  had  been 
Lady  Aberdeen ;  she  was  high  in  honor  at  the  big  Beaujon 
Hospital  in  Paris;  she  was  well-known  to  the  charitable 
world  in  the  Society  for  Hygienic  Lodgings  for  the  poor, 
which  owed  so  much  to  her;  and  she.  had  a  wide  circle  of 
friends  everywhere.  The  little  aide  major  sent  out  from 
her  bare  shed-hospital,  lacking  in  everything,  a  clarion  call 
for  help  for  her  sick  men.  With  years  of  experience  in 
organization  back  of  her,  she  set  to  work  and,  in  the 
midst  of  the  fury  of  destruction  all  about  her,  built  up, 
item  by  item,  a  little  corner  of  order  and  competent  ac- 
tivity. In  November,  1914,  there  was  nothing  but  a 
windswept  shed,  with  straw  pallets  and  tin-can  utensils. 
By  June  of  the  next  year_yjn^  would  have  found^  if  you 
had  had  the  courage  to  go  within  two  kilometers  of  the 
front  line,  a  very  well-appointed  contagious  ward  of  a 
military  hospital,  where  nothing  was  lacking  for  the 
men's  comfort  —  except  a  certainty  that  the  whole  thing 
might  not  be  blown  to  pieces  by  a  shell.  And  by  the 


48  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

end  of  1915,  when  there  began  to  be  talk  of  a  great  Ger- 
y/  man  drive  against  Verdun,  the  men  under  our  doctor's 
supervision  had  as  good  care  as  they  could  have  had  any- 
where, with  laboratory  and  sterilizing  facilities  —  every- 
v/  thing.  Dr.  Girard-Mangin  knew  what  was  the  best  to 
/  be  had  in  hospitals  and  she  did  not  rest  until  somehow, 
Aladdin-like,  she  had  made  it  to  blossom,  out  there  in 
danger  and  desolation. 

All  during  January  of  1916  there  was  terrific  tension 
along  that  front.  The  monster  German  offensive  against 
Verdun  was  in  the  air.  The  month  of  January  passed 
with  desperate  slowness,  such  intent,  apprehensive  sus- 
pense being  torturing  for  human  nerves,  especially  tired 
human  nerves  which  had  already  been  through  a  long, 
severe  period  of  trial. 

Everybody  showed  signsu-of  ^nexyousness^  Our  little 
doctor  stuck  faithfully  to  her  bedrock  principles  of  health, 
changed  her  shoes  and  stockings  every  day,  took  her 
Spartan  baths  and  rub-downs  in  her  colder-than-freezing 
water,  went  through  her  deep-breathing  and  her  setting-up 
exercises  every  morning.  By  such  merely  feminine  re- 
liance on  everyday  sanity  in  life,  she  kept  herself  in  ex- 
cellent physical  shape,  and  did  not  succumb  to  the  tempta- 
tion, which  is  too  much  for  so  many  doctors  under  strain, 
of  hypodermics  of  strychnin,  and  other  stimulants. 

February  ist  came.  The  great  storm,  looming 
murkily,  had  not  burst. 

February  inched  itself  along,  and  finally,  because  hu- 
man nature  can  only  stand  about  so  much  of  strain,  nerves 
began  to  relax  in  utter  fatigue. 


FRANCE'S  FIGHTING  WOMAN  DOCTOR      49 

On  February  2ist,  which  was  a  Monday,  it  was  fairly 
clear,  cold,  with  what  passes  for  sunshine  in  that  region. 
Dr.  Girard-Mangin  stepped  out  in  front  of  her  shed- 
hospital  ward,  after  lunch,  and  made  this  remark  to 
herself:  "I  don't  believe  the  Boches  are  going  to  pull 
off  that  offensive  at  all.  And  to-day  is  almost  sunny. 
1  have  a  good  notion  to  go  over  to  the  i65th  and  get  my 
hair  washed."  There  was  an  ex^oiffeui.  in  that  regiment 
who  kept  on  with  his  trade  in  his  leisure  moments. 

As  this  singularly  peace-time  thought  passed  through 
her  mind,  an  obus  screamed  its  way  loudly  over  her  head. 
"  That's  near,"  she  thought,  "  nearer  than  they  generally 
are." 

Before  she  could  get  back  into  the  hospital,  the  battle 
of  Verdun  had  begun. 

The  blow  was  delivered  with  astounding  rapidity,  and 
with  stunning  force.  Up  to  that  time,  nothing  had  ever 
been  conceived  like  the  violence  of  the  artillery  fire. 
There  in  the  hospital,  only  two  kilometers  back  of  the 
front,  the  noise  was  so  great  they  could  scarcely  hear  each 
other's  voices.  Upon  those  men,  and  that  woman,  un- 
nerved by  six  weeks  of  nerve-racking  suspense,  the  great 
crisis  leaped  with  murderous  fury.  It  was  as  though  the 
world  were  being  battered  to  pieces  about  their  heads. 
Each  one  called  up  in  himself  all  the  reserve  strength  his 
life  had  given  him  and,  tight-lipped,  clung  as  best  he 
could  to  self-control. 

The  first  nerves  to  give  way  were  in  the  bake-shop. 
The  bakers  suddenly  burst  out  of  their  overheated  cell 
and,  half-naked  in  that  sharp  cold,  clad  only  in  their 


50  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

white-linen  aprons  and  trousers,  fled  away,  anywhere, 
away,  out  of  that  hell.  One  of  the  doctors,  seeing  this 
beginning  of  the  panic,  shouted  out  in  an  angry  attempt 
to  stem  the  tide  of  fear,  "  Shame  on  you,  men !  What 
are  you  doing!  What  would  happen  if  every  one  ran 
away!" 

One  of  the  fleeing  bakers,  dodging  with  agility  the 
outstretched  restraining  arms,  called  out  heartily,  with  a 
strong  Southern  accent,  "  Right  you  are,  doctor,  perfectly 

I  right !  "  and  continued  to  run  faster  than  ever.  Which 
typically  Midi  phrase  and  action  was  seized  upon  by  those 
gallant  French  hearts  for  the  laugh  which  is  the  Gallic 
coquetry  in  the  face  of  danger. 

But  even  they  could  not  smile  at  what  they  next  saw. 
At  four  o'clock  that  afternoon  began  the  spectacle,  awful 
to  French  eyes,  of  regiments  of  chasseurs  fleeing  toward 
the  rear. 

"  So  inconceivable  was  this  to  me,  that  I  repeated, 
'Chasseurs!  Retreating!'' 

Dr.  Girard-Mangin  closed  her  eyes  a  moment  as  if 
she  saw  them  again.  "Oh,  yes,  retreating — and  no 
wonder !  All  their  equipment  gone,  no  guns,  no  ammu- 
nition,  no  grenades,  no  bayonets  —  their  bare  fists,  and 
those  bleeding,  for  weapons.  Many  of  them  were  naked, 
yes,  literally  naked,  except  for  their  lea_ther  cartridge 
belts.  Everything  made  of  cloth  had  been  blown  from 
their  bodies  by  the  an^£res^ur^^Lr^rn_explodi ng  shells. 
Many  of  them  were  horribly  wounded,  although  they 
were  staggering  along.  I  remember  one  man,  whose 
wounds  we  dressed,  who  came  peeling  up  to  the  hospital, 


FRANCE'S  FIGHTING  WOMAN  DOCTOR      51 

holding  his  hand  to  his  face,  and  when  he  took  his  hand 
down  most  of  his  face  came  with  it.     Oh,  yes,  they  were 
retreating,  those  who  had  enough  life  left  to  walk.     And  I 
they  told  us  that  Verdun  was  lost,  that  no  human  power  I 
could  resist  that  thrust." 

All  that  night,  and  all  the  next  day  and  all  the  next 
night,  such  men  poured  through  and  past  the  hospital  and 
during  all  that  time  there  was  no  cessation  in  the  in- 
tolerable, maddening  din  of  the  artillery.  When  you 
ask  Dr.  Girard-Mangin  how  she  lived  through  those  days 
and  nights,  she  tells  you  steadily,  "  Oh,  that  was  not  the 
worst.  We  could  still  work.  And  we  did.  More  than 
eighteen^thousand  wounded  passed  through  the  hospital 
that  week.  We  had  too  much  to  do  to  think  of  anything 
else.  It  seemed  as  though  all  the  men  in  the  world  were 
wounded  and  pouring  in  on  us." 

On  Wednesday  afternoon,  the  tide  of  men  changed  in 
character  somewhat,   and   this  meant  that  the  end  was 
near.     In   place   of   chasseurs   and   the   ordinary   poilus,     ,  / 
quantities  of  brown  Moroccans,  those  who  fight  at  the  '/  / 
very  front,  came  fleeing  back,  horribly  wounded,  most  of 
fhem  yelling^  wild  prayers  to  Allah,  clutching  at  them- 
selves  like  children  and  howling  like  wild  beasts  —  im- 
possible to  understand  or  to  make  understand.     And  yet, 
somehow,  the  hospital  staff,  staggering  with  fatigue  them- 
selves, ministered  to  them,  too,  until  —  this  was  where 
they   all   touched   bottom  —  until,   on  Wednesday  night,  j 
the  electricity  suddenly  gave  out  and,  in  the  twinkling  of  | 
an  eye,  blackness  fell  on  the  great  wards,  shaken  by  the 
incessant  infernal  scream  ing -rush  of  the  shells  overhead. 


52  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

by  the  thunder  of  the  cannon,  and  filled  with  the  shrieks 
of  the  agonizing  wild  men  from  Africa.  Blackness  like 
the  end  of  the  world. 

Messengers  were  sent  hastily  to  grope  their  way  down 
to  the  nearest  village  for  candles.  But  they  returned 
empty-handed.  Long  before  that  the  soldiers  had  car- 
ried off  all  the  supply  of  candles. 

"  What  did  you  do,  all  that  night?  " 

Dr.  Girard-Mangin  makes  no  light  pretense  of  belit- 
tling the  experience. 

"  It  was  awful  beyond  anything  imaginable,"  she  tells 
you  gravely.  "  The  worst  thing  that  can  happen  to  a 
doctor  had  come  —  to  be  in  the  midst  of  suffering  and 
not  to  be  able  to  lift  a  ringer  to  help.  All  that  we  could 
do  was  to  give  them  water  to  drink.  We  could  feel  our 
way  to  the  water-pitchers.  The  rest  of  the  time  we  could 
only  sit,  helpless,  listen  to  the  shells  and  to  the  wounded 
men  groaning,  and  wait  for  dawn." 

Yes,  it  is  a  small,  delicately  fashioned  woman,  like 
you,  like  me,  who  lived  through  those  days  and  those 
nights,  and  came  through  them  morally  and  physically 
intact,  into  an  even  greater  usefulness.  It  will  not  be  a 
bad  thing  to  remember  her  the  next  time  we  feel  "  tired  " 
in  our  ordinary  round  of  small  efforts. 

On  the  next  day  came  the  order  to  evacuate  the  hos- 
pital, bitter  proof  of  the  German  success.  Dr.  Girard- 
Mangin  began  sending  off  her  sick  men  in  relays  of  four 
in  tfa  °ply  ambulance  at  her  disposal.  They  were  taken 
down  to  the  nearest  little  branch  railroad,  there  put  on 


FRANCE'S  FIGHTING  WOMAN  DOCTOR       53 

.he  train,  and  sent  —  nobody  knew  where,  anywhere  out 
of  the  range  of  German  guns. 

All  day  Thursday  the  evacuation  went  on.  By  Thurs- 
day evening  there  were  left  only  nine  men  in  her  ward, 
men  practically  dying,  far  gone  with  intestinal  hemor- 
rhages, too  ill  to  move.  Dr.  Girard-Mangin  spent  an- 
other black  night  beside  her  dying  men,  moving  from  one 
to  another  in  the  intense  obscurity,  raising  her  voice 
above  the  thunder  of  the  artillery  to  comfort  them,  to 
give  them  what  small  help  she  could  without^  a  light. 
On  Friday  all  the  hospital  staff,  with  a  few  exceptions, 
was  to  leave.  The  hospital  buildings  and  equipment 
were  to  be  left  in  the  charge  of  a  non-com  and  two 
privates;  and  the  men  too  ill  to  transport  were  to  be  left 
with  one  doctor  and  two  aides.  The  rule  in  the  French 
Sanitary  Service  for  that  case  is  that  the  youngest  doctor 
stays  \vith  the  sick.  Dr.  Girard-Mangin  was  the  yojiog- 
est  doctor.  , 

But  at  this,  the  good  head-doctor,  who  had  daughters 
of  his  own  in  Paris,  cried  out  that  there  was  a  limit,  that 
he  would  never  forgive  any  man  who  left  a  daughter  of 
his  alone  in  such  a  position,  alone  with  dying  men,  alone 
under  fire,  alone  to  face  the  Boches.  No,  no  Frenchman 
could  be  expected  to  do  that. 

Dr.  Girard-Mangin  appealed  over  his  head  to  the 
military  authority  in  command,  for  permission  to  do  her 
duty  as  it  fell  to  her.  "  I  have  not  failed  in  my  services 
so  far.  It  is  not  just  to  force  me  to  fail  now." 

The  military   ruling  was  that   the  usual   rule  would 


54  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

hold.  The  little  woman  doctor  stayed  in  danger,  and  the 
men  went  back  to  the  rear.  The  parting  was  a  moving 
one;  those  comrades  of  hers  who  had  seen  her  working 
hy  their  sides  for  so  many  months  took  her  in  their  arms 
and  wept  openly  as  they  bade  her  good-by. 

If  you  venture  to  ask  her  what  were  her  own  emotions 
at  this  moment,  she  tells  you  with  a  shudder,  "  Oh,  sor- 
row, black,  black  sorrow  for  France.  We  all  thought, 
you  know,  that  Verdun  had  fallen,  that  the  Germans  had 
pierced  the  line.  No  one  knew  how  far  they  had  gone. 
It  was  an  awful  moment."  Apparently  she  did  not  think 
of  herself  at  all. 

All  day  Friday,  she  was  there  with  her  stricken  men 
and  with  -two  aides.  Friday  night  she  lay  beside  them  in 
the  dark.  On  Saturday  the_man  left  in  charge  of  the 
hospital  buildings  went  mad  from  the  nervous  tension  — 
they  expected  almost  from  hour  to  hour  to  see  the  Ger- 
mans appear  —  and  from  the  hellish  noise  of  the  artillery. 

I  find  myself  cold  as  I  try  to  think  what  another  black 
night  meant  in  those  conditions.  Dr.  Girard-Mangin 
passed  it  and  emerged  into  another  dawn. 

On  Sunday  morning  the  General  in  command  of  that 
region,  amazed  to  find  that  any  one  was  still  there,  sent 
peremptory  orders  that  the  premises  must  be  evacuated 
entirely,  dying  men  and  all.  They  would  certainly  be 
killed  if  they  were  kept  there.  And  more,  there  was  no 
longer  anything  to  give  them  to  eat.  This  was  a  military 
order  and  so  overrode  the  rulings  of  the  Sanitary  Service. 
Dr.  Girard-Mangin  prepared  to  evacuate.  She  had  at 
her  disposition  a  small  camion  in  which  she  put  the  four 


FRANCE'S  FIGHTING  WOMAN  DOCTOR       55 

men  best  able  to  be  carried,  and  her  own  ambulance  in 
which  she  packed  the  five  worst  cases,  crosswise  of  the 
vehicle.  To  try  to  give  them  some  security  against  the 
inevitable  jolting,  she  bound  them  tightly  over  and  over 
to  their  stretchers.  Then,  with  her  little  medicine-kit, 
she  got  in  beside  them  and  told  her  chauffeur  to  take  them 
to  Clermont-en-Argonne,  and  not  by  the  safer  route  taken 
by  the  ravitaillement  convoys,  because  her  sick  men  could 
never  live  through  the  length  of  that  trip,  but  by  the 
shorter  road,  leading  along  directly  back  of  the  front. 

"  I  wonder  that  he  was  willing  to  take  that  dangerous 
route,"  you  say.p^SApFNA  HTGH  SCHOpU 

"  I  didn't  ask  his  opinion  about  it,"  says  Dr.  Girard- 
Mangin  with  a  ring  of  iron  in  her  voice. 

So  began  a  wild  ride  of  forty-three  kilometers,  con- 
stantly under  fire,  with  five  men  at  the  point  of  death. 
The  chauffeur  dodged  between  the  bursting  shells,  the 
oman  in  the  car  watched  her  sick  men  closely  and  kept 

em  up  with  hypodermics  of  stimulants  —  which  are 
not  administered  by  a  shaking  hand ! 

You  ask  respectfully,  looking  at  the  white  scar^  on  her 
chejek,  "  It  was  then,  during  that  ride,  that  you  were 
wounded,  wasn't  it?" 

She  nods,  hastily,  indifferently,  and  says,  "  And  when 
we  finally  reached  Clermont-en-Argonne,  my  sick  men 
were  no  better  off,  for  I  found  the  hospital  absolutely 
swamped  with  wounded.  I  said  I  was  there  with  five 
mortally  sick  men  from  Verdun,  and  they  answered,  '  If 
they  were  all  Generals  we  could  not  take  them  in.  You 
are  mad,  Madame,  to  bring  sick  men  here.'  So  we  went 


56  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

on  ten  kilometers  further  to  a  little  village  called  Froidos, 
where  my  face-wound  was  dressed  and  where  finally  I 
was  able  to  leave  my  men,  all  alive  still,  in  good  hands." 

"  They  didn't  live  to  get  well,  did  they  ?  "  you  ask. 

At  this  question,  she  has  a  moment  of  stupefaction  be- 
fore the  picture  of  your  total  incomprehension  of  what 
she  has  been  talking  about;  she  has  a  moment's  retrospec- 
tive stare  back  into  that  seething  caldron  which  was  the 
battle  of  Verdun ;  she  opens  her  mouth  to  cry  out  on  your 
lack  of  imagination;  and  she  ends  by  saying  quietly,  al- 
most with  pity  for  your  ignorance,  "  Oh,  I  never  saw  or 
heard  of  those  men  again.  There  was  a  great  deal  too 
much  else  to  be  done  at  that  time." 

Have  you  lost  track  of  time  and  place  in  that  adventure 
of  hers?  It  is  not  surprising.  She  was  then  in  the 
little  village  of  Froidos,  on  the  afternoon  of  Sunday, 
February  27th,  almost  exactly  a  week  after  the  battle 
began  —  and  after  almost  exactly  a  week  of  unbelievable 
horror  —  after  four  nights  spent  without  a  light  in  a 
great  hospital  full  of  wounded  men  —  after  a  ride  of 
nearly  fifty  kilometers  constantly  under  fire,  with  mortally 
sick  men.  And  she  now  turned,  like  a  good  soldier  who 
has  accomplished  the  task  set  him,  to  report  at  headquart- 
ters  for  another. 

Her  headquarters,  the  Direction  du  Service  Sanitaire 
was  at  Bar-le-Duc.  Without  a  moment's  rest  or  delay, 
she  set  out  for  Bar-le-Duc,  she  and  her  chauffeur,  half- 
blind  with  lack  of  sleep.  They  arrived  there  at  mid- 
night. She  reported  herself  at  the  hospital,  so  large  that 


FRANCE'S  FIGHTING  WOMAN  DOCTOR      57 

in  normal  times  it  holds  three  thousand  wounded.  "  I 
have  just  brought  in  the  last  of  the  sick  from  the  military 
hospital  at  Verdun,"  she  said,  to  explain  her  presence. 
They  were  astounded  to  hear  that  any  one  had  been 
there  so  lately.  Every  one  had  thought  that  certainly  the 
Germans  were  there  by  that  time. 

"  Please,  is  there  a  place  where  I  may  sleep  a  few 
hours?  "  she  said.  » 

But  there  was  no  place,  not  one.  The  great  hospital 
was  crowded  to  the  last  inch  of  its  space  with  wounded 
—  halls,  passageways,  aisles,  even  the  stairs  had  wounded 
on  them.  Finally  some  one  gave  her  a  blanket  and  she 
lay  down  on  the  floor  in  the  little  office  of  the  head- 
doctor  and  slept  till  morning  —  five  or  six  hours.  Then 
she  went  out  into  the  town  to  try  to  find  a  lodging. 
Not  one  to  be  had,  the  town  being  as  full  as  the  hos- 
pital. She  had  not  taken  her  clothes  off,  naturally,  nor 
her  shoes. 

"  Oh,  then  I  did  feel  tired,"  she  says.     "  That  morn- 
ing, for  the  first  time,  I  knew  how  tired  I  was,  as  I  went 
dragging  myself  from  door  to  door,  begging  for  a  room 
and  a  bed.     It  was  because  I  was  no  longer  working,  you     S' 
see.     As  long  as  you  have  work  to  do,  you  can  go  on." 

At  last  a  poor  woman  took  pity  on  her,  said  that  she 
and  her  daughter  would  sleep  together  on  one  narrow 
bed,  and  let  her  have  the  other  one. 

"  I  was  so  glad,  so  glad,"  says  Dr.  Girard-Mangin, 
"  to  know  I  was  to  have  a  real  bed !  I  was  like  a  child 
When  you  are  as  tired  as  that,  you  don't  think  of  any- 


58  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

thing  but  the  simple  elementals  —  lying  down,  being 
warm,  having  something  to  eat  —  all  your  fine,  civilized 
ideas  are  swept  away." 

She  went  back  toward  the  hospital  to  get  what  few 
things  she  had  been  able  to  bring  with  her,  and  there  she 
saw  her  chauffeur  waving  a  paper  toward  her.  "  We 
are  to  be  off  at  once,"  he  said,  and  showed  her  an  order 
to  leave  Bar-le-Duc  without  delay,  taking  two  nurses  with 
them,  and  to  go  with  all  speed  to  the  hospital  at  Vadelain- 
court.  They  were  crowded  with  wounded  there. 

"  Then,  at  once,  my  tiredness  went  away,"  she  says. 
"  It  only  lasted  while  I  thought  of  getting  a  bed.  When 
I  knew  we  were  going  into  action  once  more,  I  was  my- 
self again." 

By  two  o'clock  that  afternoon  —  this  was  Monday  — 
they  were  en  route  for  the  hospital,  the  doctor  on  the 
seat  by  the  chauffeur,  the  two  nurses,  hysterical  with  fear 
over  the  shells,  weeping  inside. 

"What  a  terrible,  tragic,  inspiring  trip  that  was!" 
she  exclaims,  and  almost  for  the  only  time  during  her 
quietly  told  narration  her  voice  quivers,  her  eyes  suffuse. 
"  We  were  going  against  the  tide  of  fresh  reserves,  rush- 
ing out  to  the  front  —  mile  after  mile,  facing  those 
strongly  marching  ranks  of  splendid  young  Frenchmen, 
all  going  out  to  suffer  the  unimaginable  horrors  from 
which  I  had  just  come.  I  could  not  bear  to  look  into 
those  eager,  ardent  faces.  I  was  so  proud  of  them,  so 
yearning  over  them!  And  they  were  so  full  of  spirit, 
hurrying  forward  to  the  supreme  sacrifice.  They  shouted 
out  to  us  again  and  again,  '  The  battle  isn't  over,  yet,  is 


FRANCE'S  FIGHTING  WOMAN  DOCTOR       59 

it?  Will  we  get  there  in  time?'  They  laughed  light- 
heartedly,  the  younger  ones,  when  they  saw  me  and  called 
out,  '  Oh,  the  women  are  fighting  out  there,  too,  are 
they  ?  '  Wave  after  wave  of  them,  rank  on  rank,  the 
best  of  my  country,  marching  out  to  death." 

They  were  delayed  by  an  accident  to  a  tire,  being  in- 
stantly —  as  is  the  rule  on  military  roads,  always  crammed 
to  the  last  inch  —  lifted  bodily  into  a  neighboring  field 
for  repairs.  No  stationing  for  repairs  is  allowed  on  a 
road  where  every  one  is  incessantly  in  movement.  While 
the  repairs  were  being  made,  the  car  sank  deeper  and 
deeper  into  the  mud,  and  it  was  a  Herculean  undertaking 
to  get  it  back  in  the  main  thoroughfare.  As  usual,  a 
crowd  of  good-natured  poilus  managed  this,  heaving  to- 
gether with  the  hearty  good-will  to  which  all  drivers  of 
American  ambulances  can  testify. 

Delayed  by  this,  it  was  nearly  midnight  when  they 
drew  near  their  destination.  The  chauffeur  turned  off 
the  main  road  into  a  smaller  one,  a  short  cut  to  the 
hospital,  and  sank  at  once  in  mud  up  to  his  hubs.  From 
twelve  o'clock  that  night  till  half-past  five  in  the  morn- 
ing, they  labored  to  make  the  few  kilometers  which  sep- 
arated them  from  Vadelaincourt.  Once  the  chauffeur, 
hearing  in  the  dark  the  rush  of  water  against  the  car, 
announced  that  he  was  sure  that  the  river  had  burst  its 
banks,  that  they  had  missed  the  bridge  and  were  now  in 
the  main  current.  Dr.  Girard-Mangin  got  down  to  in- 
vestigate and  found  herself  knee-deep  in  mud  so  liquid 
that  its  sound  had  deceived  the  chauffeur.  They  toiled 
on,  the  nurses  inside  the  car  wringing  their  hands. 


60  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

By  the  time  it  was  faintly  dawn  they  arrived  at  the 
hospital,  where  the  hard-worked  head-doctor,  distracted 
with  the  rush  of  wounded,  cried  out  upon  her  for  being 
a  woman,  but  told  her  for  Heaven's  sake  to  stay  and 
help.  The  nurses  were  taken  in  and  set  to  work,  where 
at  once  they  forgot  themselves  and  their  fears.  But 
again  there  was  no  place  for  the  new  doctor  to  sleep,  the 
hospital  being  overflowing  with  human  wreckage.  She 
did  what  all  ambulance  people  hate  to  do,  she  went  back 
to  the  reeking  ambulance,  laid  herself  on  a  stretcher,  wet 
boots  and  all,  drew  up  about  her  the  typhoid-soakej 
blankets  of  her  ex-patients,  and  instantly  fell  asleep. 
The  chauffeur  had  the  preferable  place  of  sleeping  under 
the  car,  on  another  stretcher. 

She  had  no  more  than  closed  her  eyes,  when  came  a 
loud,  imperious  pounding  on  the  car,  "  Get  up  quickly. 
The  medecin-en-chef  sends  for  you  at  once;  terrible  lot 
of  wounded  just  brought  in ;  every  hand  needed." 

She  went  back  through  the  mud  to  the  hospital,  had  a 
cup  of  hot  coffee  and  —  detail  eloquent  of  the  confusion 
and  disorganization  of  that  feverish  week  —  some  plum- 
cake!  By  what  freak  of  ravitaillement  there  was  only 
plum-cake,  she  never  knew. 

Then  she  put  on  her  operating-apron  and  cap.  She 
went  into  the  operating-room  at  half-past  seven  in  the 
morning.  She  operated  steadily,  without  stopping,  for 
more  than  five  hours.  At  one  o'clock  she  felt  giddy  and 
her  legs  failed  her.  She  sat  down  flat  on  the  floor,  lean- 
ing back  against  the  wall.  "  Here  it  comes!  "  she  said 


FRANCE'S  FIGHTING  WOMAN  DOCTOR      61 

to  herself,  fighting  the  faintness  which  dissolved  all  her 
members,  "  Here  comes  womanishness !  " 

But  it  did  not  come.  She  sat  thus,  setting  her  teeth 
and  tightening  her  will  until  she  conquered  it.  A  new 
relay  of  doctors  came  in.  She  staggered  off,  had  more 
coffee,  a  piece  of  chocolate  and  another  piece  of  plum- 
cake!  And  was  told  that  she  would  be  "off  duty"  till 
eight  that  evening.  Where  could  she  go  to  rest?  No- 
where. Snow  lay  on  the  fields,  mud  was  deep  in  the 
roads.  There  was  not  a  bed  empty. 

"  I  sat  down  in  a  corner,  in  a  chair,  quite  a  comfortable 
chair,"  she  tells  you,  "  and  took  down  my  hair  and 
brushed  and  braided  it.  You  know  how  much  that  rests 
you !  " 

Now,  Dr.  Girard-Mangin  is  the  last  person  in  the 
world  over  whom  to  sentimentalize,  and  I  swore  before 
beginning  to  write  about  her  that  I  would  try  not  to  do  it. 
But  I  can  not  restrain  myself  from  asking  you  here  if 
you  do  not  feel  with  me  like  both  laughing  and  crying  at 
the  inimitable,  homely  femininity  of  that  familiar  gesture, 
at  the  picture  of  that  shining  little  warrior-figure,  return- 
ing in  that  abomination  of  desolation  to  the  simple  action 
of  a  sheltered  woman's  everyday  home  life? 

Then  she  went  to  sleep,  there  in  the  "  quite  comforta- 
ble "  chair,  with  her  shoes  unlaced  but  still  on  her  feet. 

I  had  lost  my  other  pair  somewhere  along  the  route," 
she  explains,  "  and  I  didn't  dare  to  take  those  off  because 
I  knew  I  could  never  get  them  on  again  if  I  did." 

There  followed   twenty  days  of  this  terrific  routine. 


62  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

steady  work  in  the  operating-room  with  intervals  of  seven 
hours'  "  rest,"  with  nowhere  to  go  to  rest.  "  But  the 
food  got  better  almost  at  once,"  she  says,  in  explanation 
of  her  having  lived  through  it.  "  We  couldn't  have  got- 
ten along  on  plum-cake,  of  course !  " 

For  nine  of  those  twenty  days,  she  never  took  off  her 
shoes  at  all,  and  the  foot  was  frozen  there  which  now  she 
drags  a  little  in  walking. 

On  March  23rd,  a  month  after  the  battle  of  Verdun 
had  begun,  the  medecin-chef-inspecteur  came  to  Vadelain- 
court,  went  through  the  usual  motions  of  stupefaction  to 
find  a  woman  doctor  there,  decided  —  rather  late  —  that 
it  was  no  place  for  a  woman,  and  sent  her  to  Chalons. 
For  six  months  thereafter,  she  was  in  the  Somme,  near 
Ypres,  working  specially  among  the  tubercular  soldiers, 
but  also  taking  her  full  share  of  military  surgery.  "  Just 
the  usual  service  at  the  front,  nothing  of  special  interest," 
she  says  with  military  brevity,  baffling  your  interest,  and 
leaving  you  to  find  out  from  other  sources  that  she  was 
wounded  again  in  June  of  that  year. 

On  the  nth  of  October,  1916,  a  remarkable  and  note- 
worthy event  took  place.  For  once  a  Governmental  ac- 
tion was  taken  with  intelligence.  The  Government, 
wishing  to  institute  a  special  course  of  training  for  mili- 
tary nurses  at  the  front,  called  to  its  organization  and 
direction,  not  somebody's  relation-in-law,  not  a  politician's 
protegee,  but  the  woman  in  France  best  fitted  to  under- 
take the  work.  Such  an  action  on  the  part  of  any  Gov- 
ernment is  worthy  of  note! 

The  hospital  which  had  been  built  for  charitable  pur- 


FRANCE'S  FIGHTING  WOMAN  DOCTOR       63 

poses  on  the  Rue  Desnouettes  was  loaned  to  the  Govern- 
ment. What  was  needed  for  its  head  was  some  one  who 
knew  all  about  what  training  was  essential  for  nursing 
service  at  the  front.  Any  good  military  doctor  could 
have  done  this  part.  Also  some  one  was  needed  who 
knew  all  about  what  is  the  life  of  a  woman  at  the  front. 
Any  good  nurse  of  military  experience  could  have  seen  to 
this.  Also  there  was  needed  a  person  with  experience  in 
organization,  with  the  capacity  to  keep  a  big  enterprise 
in  smooth  and  regular  running.  Any  good  business  man 
could  have  managed  this.  Furthermore  there  was  needed 
a  person  with  magnetism  who  could  inspire  the  women 
passing  through  the  school  with  enthusiasm,  with  ardor, 
with  devotion  —  I  needn't  go  on,  I  think.  You  must 
have  seen  that  only  one  person  combined  all  these  quali- 
fications, and  she  is  the  one  now  at  the  head  of  the  hos- 
pital-school. 

Dr.  Girard-Mangin  received  a  call  summoning  her 
back  to  that  "  work  at  the  rear  "  which  is  such  a  trial 
for  those  who  have  known  the  glory  of  direct  service  at 
the  front. 

This  meant  drudgery  for  her,  long  hours  of  attention  to 
uninteresting  but  important  details,  work  with  a  very 
mixed  class  of  intelligences  —  the  women  in  her  courses 
of  study  vary  from  peasant  girls  to  officers'  widows; 
bending  her  quick  intelligence  to  cope  with  sloth  and 
dullness.  It  meant,  worst  of  all  and  hardest  of  all, 
living  again  in  the  midst  of  petty  bickerings,  little  per- 
sonal jealousies,  mean  ambitions.  Nothing  is  more 
startling  for  those  who  "  come  back  from  the  front  "  than 


64  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

to  find  the  world  at  the  rear  still  going  on  with  its  tiny 
quarrels  and  disputes,  still  industriously  raking  in  its 
muckheap.  And  nothing  more  eloquently  paints  our 
average,  ordinary  life  than  the  intense  moral  depression 
which  attends  the  return  to  it  of  those  who  have  for  a 
time  escaped  from  it  to  a  rougher,  more  dangerous,  and 
more  self-forgetful  atmosphere. 

For  me,  no  part  of  Dr.  Girard-Mangin's  usefulness 
is  more  dramatic  than  the  undramatic  phase  of  it  in  which 
she  is  now  faithfully  toiling.  Her  coolness  under  fire, 
her  steadiness  under  overwhelming  responsibilities,  her 
astonishing  physical  endurance  do  not  thrill  me  more 
than  this  prompt,  disciplined  ability  to  take  up  civilian 
life  again  and  quiet,  civilian  duties. 

She  has  organized  the  hospital  ingeniously  along  or- 
iginal lines,  as  a  perfect  reproduction  of  what  the  nurses 
will  encounter  at  the  front:  a  series  of  barracks,  a  ward 
to  each  shed,  with  the  nurse's  little  sleeping-cubicle  at 
the  end  with  its  rough  but  sufficient  sanitary  arrange- 
ments. Another  unit  is  given  over  to  the  operating-room 
and  its  appendages,  the  sterilizing-room,  anesthetic-room, 
etc.  Another  is  the  administrative  building,  and  contains 
the  offices  of  the  medecin-en-chef ',  the  head-nurse,  the 
pharmacy,  the  bacteriological  laboratory.  At  one  side 
are  very  simple  but  wholesome  sleeping  quarters  and 
study-rooms  for  the  fifty  and  more  nurses  who  pass 
through  the  school  every  three  months.  For  Dr.  Girard- 
Mangin  only  takes  them  in  hand  when  they  have  already 
completed  a  course  of  training  in  ordinary  hospitals. 
Even  then  she  weeds  out  rigorously,  in  the  middle  of  the 


FRANCE'S  FIGHTING  WOMAN  DOCTOR      65' 

short,  intensive,  concentrated,  course,  those  who  do  not 
show  the  necessary  physical,  mental,  and  moral  qualities 
to  fit  them  for  the  grave  responsibilities  they  will  have  at 
the  front,  for  nurses  from  this  hospital  go  out  to  direct 
and  run  the  field  hospitals,  not  merely  to  be  nurses  there. 

The  work  for  the  doctor  at  the  head  is  a  "  grind," 
nothing  less,  monotonous,  like  all  teaching  —  an  ever- 
reiterated  repetition  of  the  same  thing  —  no  glory,  no 
change,  no  bright  face  of  danger.  The  clear  brown  eyes 
face  it  as  coolly,  as  undaunted,  as  they  faced  bursting 
shells,  or  maddened  soldiers.  The  clear-thinking  brain 
sees  its  vital  importance  to  the  country  as  well  as  it  saw 
the  more  picturesque  need  for  staying  with  sick  men 
under  fire.  The  well-tempered  will  keeps  lassitude  and 
fatigue  at  bay,  keeps  the  whole  highly  strung,  highly  de- 
veloped organism  patiently,  steadily,  enduringly  at  work 
for  France. 

There,  my  fellow-citizens  in  America,  there  is  a  citizen 
to  envy,  to  imitate! 

—  DOROTHY  CANFIELD. 


Ill 

THE  WORK  OF  A  RANCHMAN 

From  The  Boys'  Life  of  Roosevelt,  by  Hermann  Hagedorn; 
copyright,  1918,  by  Harper  and  Brothers.  By  permission  of  the 
publishers  and  the  author. 

Theodore  Roosevelt  went  to  Dakota  straight  from  the 
Chicago  jcqnvention,  arriving  at  Chimney  Butte  Ranch 
about  the  middle  of  June.  The  country  was  at  its  best, 
with  the  bright  young  grass  in  one  unbroken  carpet  over 
the  prairie,  and  here  and  there  in  daubs  of  vivid  green  on 
the  dark  red  and  purple  of  the  buttes. 

Roosevelt  now  entered  with  heart  and  soul  on  the 
work  of  a  ranchman.  The  most  exacting  work  of  the 
season,  the  spring  round-up,  had  been  completed,  but 
there  were  other  smaller  round-ups  nearer  home  and  no 
lack  at  any  time  of  other  work.  He  was  in  the  saddle 
from  morning  until  night,  riding  among  the  cattle,  hunt- 
ing stray  horses  (and  they  were  always  straying),  break- 
ing ponies,  cutting  wood,  varying  the  day's  toil  only  by 
an  occasional  excursion  at  dawn  or  dusk  after  water-fowl 
or  grouse,  when  salt  pork  became  wearisome. 

The   vigorous   outdoor   life   in   a   wild    country   amid 

hardy  men   thrilled   Theodore   Roosevelt  to  the  depths. 

Beside  it  the  life  of  politics  and  society  seemed  for  the 

moment  unreal  and  utterly  valueless.     His  double  bercave- 

66 


THE  WORK  OF  A  RANCHMAN  67 

ment  had  made  the  very  intercourse  with  acquaintances 
and  friends  of  the  happy  former  times  a  source  of  re- 
newed pain.  His  little  daughter  Alice  was  living  with 
"  Bamie "  in  the  house  on  Fifty-seventh  Street.  Soon 
that  house  was  to  be  closed.  The  old_  home  and  the 
home  that  had  been  his  during  the  first  years  of  hisjmar- 
ried  life  were  both  gone.  He  determined  that  he  would 
build  a  new  home  in  surroundings  that  had  no  painful 
memories.  Forty  miles  north  of  Chimney  Butte,  where 
the  Little  Missouri  took  a  long  swing  westward  through 
a  fertile  bottom  bordered  along  its  mile  or  two  of  length 
by  sheer  cliff  walls,  on  a  low  bluff  surmounted  by  cot- 
tonwood-trees,  he  found  the  bleached  interlocked  antlers 
of  two  great  elk;  and  there  he  determined  to  build  his 
house. 

He  went  East  in  the  first  days  of  July  to  take  what 
part  he  could  in  the  Presidential  campaign  and  to  make 
final  arrangements  with  Bill  Sewall  and  Will  Dow, 
whom  he  had  urged  as  early  as  March  to  try  their  fortunes 
in  Dakota. 

Sewall  had  come  to  New  York  late  the  same  month, 
elated  at  the  prospect.  On  his  return  to  the  East,  early 
in  July,  Roosevelt  wrote  him  once  more: 

Now,  a  little  plain  talk,  though  I  do  not  think  it 
necessary,  for  I  know  you  too  well.  If  you  are 

V- afraid  of  hard  work  and  privation,  do  not  come 
West.  If  you  expect  to  make  a  fortune  in  a  year  or 
two,  do  not  come  West.  If  you  will  give  up  under 

I/  temporary  discouragements,  do  not  come  West.  If, 
on  the  other  hand,  you  are  willing  to  work  hard, 


68  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

especially  the  first  year;  if  you  realize  that  for  a 
couple  of  years  you  cannot  expect  to  make  much 
v  more  than  you  are  now  making;  and  if  you  also 
know  that  at  the  end  of  that  time  you  will  be  in 
y  receipt  of  about  a  thousand  dollars  for  the  third 
year,  with  an  unlimited  rise  ahead  of  you  and  a 
future  as  bright  as  you  yourself  choose  to  make  it  — 
then  come.  Now  I  take  it  for  granted  you  will  not 
hesitate  at  this  time.  So  fix  up  your  affairs  at  once, 
and  be  ready  to  start  before  the  end  of  this  month. 

Sewall  did  not  hesitate ;  nor  did  Dow.  They  left  New 
York  with  Roosevelt  the  last_day_of  July,  arriving  at 
Chimney  Butte  the  5th  of  August. 

Sewall's  eyes  gleamed  at  the  wildness  of  the  country, 
but  he  turned  that  evening  to  Roosevelt  with  a  troubled 
look.  "  You  won't  make  any  money  raising  cattle  in 
this  country,"  he  remarked. 

"Bill,  you  don't  know  anything  about  it!"  retorted 
Theodore  the  younger. 

Bill  laughed.  "  Well,  I  guess  that's  just  about  right, 
too,"  he  said. 

They  remained  at  Chimney  Butte  two  days,  and  then 
rode  north  forty  miles  to  Elkhorn,  the  new  ranch,  driving 
a  hundred  head  of  cattle  before  them,  now  following  the 
dry  river-bed,  now  branching  off  inland,  crossing  the 
great  plateaus  and  winding  through  the  ravines  of  the 
broken  country.  There  was  already  a  shack  on  the  new 
ranch,  a  primitive  affair  with  a  dirt  roof,  which  Sewall 
and  Dow  now  made  their  headquarters. 

The  cattle  that  Roosevelt  and  his  friends  from  Maine 
had  driven  down  the  river  from  Chimney  Butte  were 


THE  WORK  OF  A  RANCHMAN  69 

intended  to  be  the  nucleus  of  the  Elkhorn  herd.  They 
were  young  grade  short-horns  of  Eastern  origin,  less  wild 
than  the  long-horn  Texas  steers,  but  liable,  on  new 
ground,  to  stray  off  and  be  lost  in  the  innumerable  coulees 
round  about.  So  each  night  the  three  men,  aided  by  some 
expert  like  Merrifield,  "  bedded  "  them  down  on  the  level 
bottom,  one  or  the  other  of  them  riding  slowly  and 
quietly  round  and  round  the  herd,  heading  off  and  turning 
back  into  it  all  that  tried  to  stray.  This  was  not  alto- 
gether a  simple  business,  for  there  was  danger  of  stampede 
»  in  making  the  slightest  unusual  noise.  Now  and  then 
they  would  call  to  the  cattle  softly  as  they  rode,  or  sing 
to  them  until  the  steers  had  all  lain  down,  close  together. 
And  even  then,  at  times,  one  of  the  men  would  stay  on 
guard,  riding  round  and  round  the  herd,  calling  and  sing- 
ing. 

There  was  something  magical  in  the  strange  sound  of  it 
in  the  clear  air  under  the  stars. 

The  cattle  had  accustomed  themselves  to  their  new 
surroundings  by  the  end  of  the  month,  and  Roosevelt 
went  south  with  Merrifield  and  the  men  from  Maine  to 
attend  a  round-up  in  the  great  cattle  country  west  of  the 
Little  Missouri.  They  took  the  wagon,  following  the 
oM  Fort  Keogh  trail.  Cattle  had  a  way  of  straying  far 
in  the  summers  in  their  eagerness  for  green  grass,  and  the 
search,  in  this  case,  carried  Roosevelt  and  his  party  across 
south-eastern  Montana  and  half-way  across  Wyoming  to 
the  very  base  of  the  Big  Horn  Mountains  where  eight 
years  previously  Custer  had  been  killed.  Those  moun- 
tains offered  Roosevelt  a  temptation  not  to  be  resisted. 


70  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

Sewall  and  Dow  were  off  with  the  round-up,  "  cutting 
out  "  cattle  that  bore  the  Maltese  cross  or  the  triangle 
brand  of  the._Rooseyjelt^ ranches.  His  interests,  therefore, 
were  in  good  hands.  He  left  the  wagon  on  the  first  ridge 
of  the  Big  Horn  Mountains,  and  with  Merrifield,  and  a 
weather-beaten  old  plainsman  "  with  an  inexhaustible 
fund  of  misinformation  "  as  teamster  of  his  pack-train, 
started  into  the  mountains  for  a  fortnight's  hunt. 

They  followed  an  old  Indian  trail,  ascending  through 
the  dense  pine  woods  where  the  trunks  rose  like  straight 
columns,  close  together,  and  up  the  sides  of  rocky  gorges, 
driving  the  pack-train  with  endless  difficulty  over  fallen 
timber  and  along  ticklish  ridges.  They  pitched  their 
camp  at  last  beside  a  beautiful,  clear  mountain  brook 
that  ran  through  a  glade  ringed  by  slender  pines;  and 
from  there  hunted  among  the  peaks  round  about.  The 
weather  was  clear  and  cold,  with  thin  ice  covering  the 
dark  waters  of  the  mountain  tarns,  and  now  and  again 
slight  snowfalls  that  made  the  forest  gleam  and  glisten 
in  the  moonlight  like  fairyland.  Through  the  frosty  air 
they  could  hear  the  vibrant,  musical  note  of  the  bull  elk 
far  off,  calling  to  the  cows  or  challenging  one  another. 

No  country  could  have  been  better  adapted  to  still 
hunting  than  the  great,  pine-clad  mountains,  studded 
with  open  glades.  Roosevelt  loved  the  thrill  of  the  chase, 
y  but  he  loved  no  less  the  companionship  of  the  majestic 
trees  and  the  shy  wild  creatures  which  sprang  across  his 
path  or  ran  with  incredible  swiftness  along  the  overhang- 
ing boughs.  Moving  on  noiseless  moccasins,  he  caught 
alluring  glimpses  of  the  inner  life  of  the  mountains, 


THE  WORK  OF  A  RANCHMAN  71 

It  was  long  and  weary  traveling  across  the  desolate 
reaches  of  burnt  prairie  over  which,  day  after  day,  Roose- 
velt galloped  now  in  this  direction,  now  in  that,  on  the 
lookout  for  game,  while  the  heavy  wagon  lumbered  on. 
At  last,  after  many  days,  they  reached  a  strange  and 
romantic  region  of  isolated  buttes  of  sandstone,  cut  by 
the  weather  into  most  curious  caves  and  columns,  battle- 
ments, spires,  and  flying  buttresses.  It  was  a  beautiful 
and  fantastic  place  and  they  made  their  camp  there. 

The  moon  was  full  and  the  night  clear,  and  the  flame 
of  the  camp-fire  leaped  up  the  cliffs,  so  that  the  weird, 
carved  shapes  seemed  alive.  Outside  the  circle  of  the 
fire  the  cliffs  shone  like  silver  under  the  moon,  throwing 
grotesque  shadows. 

It  was  like  a  country  seen  in  a  dream. 

Roosevelt  went   East  again   late  in   September  to   do 
what  he  could  in  an  uninspiring  campaign  to  help  elect  /  £  $ ' 
Blaine    President.     But    Cleveland    was    victorious    and 
Roosevelt,  resigning  himself  to  a  fact  that  no  effort  of  his 
could  now  alter,  returned  to  Dakota. 

Sewall  and  Dow  were  at  Elkhorn,  busy  cutting  the 
timber  for  the  new  house,  which  was  to  stand  under  the 
shade  of  a  row  of  cottonwood-trees  overlooking  the  broad, 
shallow  bed  of  the  Little  Missouri.  They  were  both 
mighty  men  with  the  ax.  Roosevelt  himself  was  no 
amateur,  but  he  could  not  compete  with  the  stalwart  back- 
woodsmen. 

One  evening  he  overheard  one  of  the  cowboys  ask 
Dow  what  the  day's  cut  had  been,  "Well,  Bill  cut 


72  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

down  fifty-three,"  answered  Dow,  "  I  cut  forty-nine,  and 
the  boss,"  he  added,  dryly,  not  realizing  that  Roosevelt 
was  within  hearing — "  the  boss  he  beavered  down  seven- 
teen." 

Roosevelt  remembered  a  tree-stump  he  had  seen  re- 
cently, gnawed  down  by  a  beaver,  and  grinned. 

Winter  now  settled  down  over  the  Bad  Lands  in  earn- 
est. There  was  little  snow,  but  the  cold  was  fierce  in  its 
intensity.  By  day,  the  plains  and  buttes  were  dazzling 
to  the  eye  under  the  clear  weather;  by  night,  the  trees 
cracked  and  groaned  from  the  strain  of  the  biting  frost. 
Even  the  stars  seemed  to  snap  and  glitter.  The  river  lay 
fixed  in  its  shining  bed  of  glistening  white,  "  like  a  huge 
bent  bar  of  blue  steel."  Wolves  and  lynxes  traveled  up 
and  down  it  at  night  as  though  it  were  a  highway. 

Roosevelt  was  now  living  mainly  at  Chimney  Butte, 
writing  somewhat  and  reading  much,  sharing  fully  mean- 
while in  the  hardship  of  the  winter  work.  It  was  not  al- 
ways pleasant  to  be  out  of  doors,  but  the  herds  had  to  be 
carefully  watched  and  every  day  (which  began  with 
1  breakfast  at  five  —  three  hours  before  sunrise  j  he  or  one 
of  his  men  was  in  the  saddle  from  dawn  to  dark,  riding 
about  among  them  and  turning  back  any  herd  that  seemed 
to  be  straggling  toward  the  open  plains.  In  the  open 
country  there  was  always  a  strong  wind  that  never  failed 
to  freeze  ears  or  fingers  or  toes,  in  spite  of  flannels  and 
furs.  The  cattle  suffered  much,  standing  huddled  in  the 
bushes  in  the  ravines;  and  some  of  the  young  stock  died  of 
exposure.  .  .  . 


THE  WORK  OF  A  RANCHMAN  73 

The  ranch-house  was  completed  in  the  late  spring.  It 
was  a  spacious  place  for  that  region,  and,  in  its  plain 
fashion,  comfortable  and  homelike.  It  was,  above  all, 
"  fit  for  women  folks,"  which  was  more  than  could  be 
said  of  the  shack  with  a  dirt  roof  at  Chimney  Butte. 
Wilmot  Dow  was  sent  East  in  July  "  to  fetch  them  out." 

They  came  in  early  August,  Will  Dow  with  his  newly 
wedded  bride,  escorting  Bill  Sewall's  wife  and  three- 
year-old  daughter.  They  were  back-woodswomen,  self- 
reliant,  fearless,  high-hearted,  true  mates  to  their  stalwart 
men.  Before  Roosevelt  knew  what  was  happening  they 
had  turned  the  new  house  into  a  home. 

And  now  for  them  all  began  a  season  of  deep  and  quiet 
contentment  that  was  to  remain  in  the  memories  of  all 
of  them  as  a  kind  of  idyl.  It  was  a  life  of  elemental  toil, 
hardship,  and  danger,  and  of  strong,  elemental  pleasures 
—  rest  after  labor,  food  after  hunger,  warmth  and  shelter 
after  bitter  cold.  In  that  life  there  was  no  room  for  dis- 
tinctions of  social  position  or  wealth.  They  respected 
one  another  and  cared  for  one  another  because  and  only 
because  each  knew  that  the  others  were  brave  and  loyal 
and  steadfast. 

Life  on  the  ranch  proved  a  more  joyous  thing  than 
ever,  after  the  women  had  taken  charge.  They  demanded 
certain  necessities  at  once.  They  demanded  chickens; 
they  demanded  at  least  one  cow.  No  one  had  thought  of 
a  cow.  So  Roosevelt  and  Sewall  and  Dow  between  them 
roped  one  of  the  range  and  threw  her,  and  sat  on  her, 
and  milked  her  upside  down,  which  was  not  altogether 
satisfactory,  but  was,  for  the  time  being,  the  best  thing 


74  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

they  could  do.  There  was  now  a  new  charm  in  shooting 
game,  with  women  at  home  to  cook  it.  And  Mrs.  Sewall 
baked  bread  that  was  not  at  all  like  the  bread  Bill  baked. 
Soon  she  was  even  baking  cake,  which  was  an  unheard-of 
luxury  in  the  Bad  Lands.  Then,  after  a  while,  the  buffalo 
berries  and  wild  plums  began  to  disappear  from  the  bushes 
round  about  and  appear  on  the  table  as  jam. 

"  However  big  you  build  the  house,  it  won't  be  big 
enough  for  two  women,"  pessimists  had  remarked.  But 
their  forebodings  were  not  realized.  At  Elkhorn  nc  cross 
word  was  heard.  They  were,  taken  altogether,  a  very 
happy  family.  Roosevelt  was  "  the  boss,"  in  the  sense 
that,  since  he  footed  the  bills,  power  of  final  decision  was 
his;  but  only  in  that  sense.  He  saddled  his  own  horse; 
now  and  then  he  washed  his  own  clothes ;  he  fed  the  pigs ; 
and  once,  on  a  rainy  day,  he  blacked  the  Sunday  boots  of 
every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  the  place.  He  was  not 
encouraged  to  repeat  that  performance.  The  folks  from 
Maine  made  it  quite  clear  that  if  the  boots  needed  black- 
ing at  all,  which  was  doubtful,  they  thought  some  one 
else  ought  to  do  the  blacking  —  not  at  all  because  it 
seemed  to  them  improper  that  Roosevelt  should  black  any- 
body's boots,  but  because  he  did  it  so  badly.  The  paste 
came  off  on  everything  it  touched.  The  women 
"  mothered  "  him,  setting  his  belongings  to  rights  at  stated 
intervals,  for  he  was  not  conspicuous  for  orderliness.  He, 
in  turn,  treated  the  women  with  the  friendliness  and  re- 
spect he  showed  to  the  women  of  his  own  family.  And 
the  little  Sewall  girl  was  never  short  of  toys. 


THE  WORK  OF  A  RANCHMAN  75 

Elkhorn  Ranch  was  a  joyous_place  those  days.  Cow- 
boys, hearing  of  it,  came  from  a  distance  for  a  touch  of 
home  life  and  the  luxury  of  hearing  a  woman's  voice. 

The  summer  days  were  for  Roosevelt,  as  well  as  for 
his  men,  full  of  vigorous  toil,  beginning  before  the  stars 
had  fully  faded  out  of  the  sky  at  dawn  and  ending  in 
heavy  slumber  before  the  last  of  the  sunset  had  been 
swallowed  by  the  night.  He  was  in  the  saddle  much  of 
the  time,  working  among  the  cattle,  salvaging  steers  mired 
in  the  numerous  bogholes  and  quicksands,  driving  in  calves 
overlooked  in  the  spring  branding,  breaking  ponies,  hunt- 
ting.  Meanwhile  he  was  writing  a  Life  of  Thomas  Hart 
Benton  for  the  "  American  Statesmen  Series  "  and  was 
preparing  for  the  press  a  remarkably  entertaining  volume 
of  hunting  experiences  called  Hunting  Trips  of  a  Ranch- 
man, which  he  had  written  the  previous  winter. 

Much  of  the  time  he  was  away  from  the  ranch  on  the 
various  round-ups,  either  alone  or  with  as  many  of  his 
men  as  could  be  spared  from  the  daily  chores  of  the  ranch. 
He  enjoyed  enormously  the  excitement  and  rough  but 
hearty  comradeship  of  these  round-ups,  which  brought 
him  in  touch  with  ranchmen  and  cowboys  from  hundreds 
of  miles  around.  The  work  was  hard  and  incessant  and 
not  without  danger  from  man  and  beast.  The  cattle 
never  harmed  him,  but  the  ponies  did.  He  was  a  good, 
but  not  extraordinary,  rider,  and  even  extraordinary  rid- 
ers were  at  times  sent  over  the  heads  of  their  ponies. 
During  the  round-up  that  summer  Roosevelt  was  bucked 
off  more  than  once.  On  one  occasion  the  point  of  his 


76  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

shoulder  was  broken.  There  were  no  surgeons  in  that 
round-up.  The  shoulder  had  to  mend  by  itself  as  well 
as  it  could  while  its  owner  went  about  his  work  as  usual. 

The  day's  work  on  the  round-up  commenced  at  three 
in  the  morning  with  a  yell  from  the  cook,  and  lasted  until 
sundown  or  after,  and  not  infrequently  the  whole  night 
through.  All  day  Roosevelt  remained  in  the  saddle.  The 
morning — and  it  was  generally  eight  hours  long  —  was 
given  to  "  riding  the  long  circle  "  in  couples,  driving  into 
the  wagon  camp  whatever  cattle  had  been  found  in  the 
hills.  The  afternoon  was  spent  in  "  cutting  out  "  of  the 
herd  thus  gathered  the  cattle  belonging  to  the  various 
brands.  This  was  difficult  and  dangerous  work.  Repre- 
sentatives of  each  brand  rode  in  succession  into  the  midst 
of  the  herd,  working  the  animal  they  were  after  gently 
to  the  edge,  then  with  a  sudden  dash  taking  it  off  at  a  run. 
The  calves  would  follow  their  mothers  and  would  then 
be  branded  with  the  mark  of  the  owner  of  the  cow. 

At  night  there  was  occasionally  guard  duty,  a  two 
hours'  slow  patrol  about  the  restless  herd.  It  was  mo- 
notonous work,  and  in  stormy  weather  no  joy  at  all ;  but 
on  clear,  warm  nights  Roosevelt,  sleepy  as  he  was  from 
the  day's  exertion,  was  not  sorry  to  lope  through  the 
lonely  silence  under  the  stars,  listening  to  the  breathing 
of  the  cattle,  alert  every  instant  to  meet  whatever  emerg- 
ency might  arise  from  out  that  dark,  moving  mass. 

One  night  there  was  a  heavy  storm.  Fearing  a 
stampede,  the  night  herders  sent  a  call  of  "  all  hands  out." 
Roosevelt  leaped  on  the  pony  he  always  kept  picketed 


THE  WORK  OF  A  RANCHMAN  77 

near  him.  Suddenly  there  was  a  terrific  peal  of  thunder. 
The  lightning  struck  almost  into  the  herd  itself,  and  with 
heads  and  tails  high  the  panic-stricken  animals  plunged 
off  into  the  blackness.  For  an  instant  Roosevelt  could 
distinguish  nothing  but  the  dark  forms  of  the  cattle  rush- 
ing by  him  like  a  spring  freshet  on  both  sides.  The  herd 
split,  half  turning  off  to  the  left,  the  rest  thundering  on. 
He  galloped  at  top  speed,  hoping  to  reach  the  leaders  and 
turn  them. 

He  heard  a  wild  splashing  ahead.  One  instant  he  was 
aware  that  the  cattle  in  front  of  him  and  beside  him  were 
disappearing;  the  next,  he  himself  was  plunging  over  a 
cut  bank  into  the  Little  Missouri.  He  bent  far  back. 
His  horse  almost  fell,  recovered  himself,  plunged  forward, 
and,  struggling  through  water  and  quicksand,  made  the 
other  side. 

For  a  second  he  saw  another  cowboy  beside  him.  The 
man  disappeared  in  the  darkness  and  the  deluge,  and 
Roosevelt  galloped  off  through  a  grove  of  cottonwoods 
after  the  diminished  herd.  The  ground  was  rough  and 
full  of  pitfalls.  Twice  his  horse  turned  a  somersault, 
throwing  him.  At  last  the  cattle  came  to  a  halt  and 
after  one  more  half-hearted  stampede,  as  the  white  dawn 
came,  turned  reluctantly  back  toward  camp. 

Roosevelt  gathered  in  stray  groups  of  cattle  as  he  went, 
driving  them  before  him.  After  a  while  he  came  upon 
a  cowboy  carrying  his  saddle  on  his  head.  It  was  the 
man  he  had  seen  for  a  flash  during  the  storm.  His  horse 
had  run  into  a  tree  and  been  killed.  He  himself  had 
escaped  by  a  miracle. 


78  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

The  men  in  the  camp  were  just  starting  on  the  long 
circle  when  Roosevelt  returned.  Only  half  the  herd  had 
been  brought  back,  they  said.  He  snatched  a  hurried 
breakfast,  leaped  on  a  fresh  horse,  and  again  was  away 
into  the  hills.  It  was  ten  hours  before  he  was  back  at 
the  wagon  camp  once  more  for  a  hasty  meal  and  a  fresh 
horse. 

When  he  went  to  sleep  that  night  he  had  been  in  the 
saddle  forty  hours.  The  cow-punchers  decided  that  "  the 
man  with  four  eyes  "  "  had  the  stuff  "  in  him. 

And  so,  quietly  "  doing  his  job "  from  day  to  day, 
in  no  way  playing  on  his  position  or  his  wealth,  but 
accepting  the  discipline  of  the  camp  and  the  orders  of 
the  captain  of  the  round-up  as  every  other  self-respecting 
cowboy  accepted  them,  Theodore  Roosevelt  gradually 
made  his  place  in  the  rough  world  of  the  Bad  Lands.  He 
was  not  a  crack  rider  or  a  fancy  roper,  but  the  captain 
of  the  round-up  learned  by  and  by  that  if  a  cow  persist- 
ed in  lying  down  in  a  thick  patch  of  bulberry-bushes,  re- 
fusing to  come  out,  Roosevelt's  persistence  could  be  relied 
on  to  ojutlast  the  cow's.  At  the  end  of  the  day,  as  well 
as  the  beginning,  he  could  be  counted  on  to  do  the  un- 
attractive task  that  fell  in  his  way.  That,  the  captain 
decided,  was  of  considerably  greater  importance  for  the 
success  of  a  round-up  than  any  handiness  with  a  lariat. 

Theodore  Roosevelt,  twenty-six  .years  old,  no  longer 
asthmatic  now,  but  as  hardy  in  body  as  he  was  fearless  in 
spirit,  became,  in  less  than  a  year  from  that  early  Septem- 
ber rooming  when  he  had  first  descended  from  the  train 


THE  WORK  OF  A  RANCHMAN  79 

at  Medora,  an  important  factor  in  the  life  of  the  Bad 
Lands.  Ranchmen  as  well  as  cowboys  respected  him_and 
liked  him  and  treated  him  as  a  comrade.  They  did  even 
more.  They  elected  him  president  of  the  Little  Missouri 
Stockmen's  Association  because  they  admired  his  "  gin- 
ger "  and  knew  that  he  was  "  square." 

—  HERMANN  HAGEDORN. 


IV 

THE  ZADOC  PINE  LABOR  UNION 

From  Zadoc  Pine  and  other  Stories  by  H.  C.  Bunner,  copy- 
right, 1891,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  By  permission  of  the 
publishers. 

When  Zadoc  Pine's  father  died,  Zadoc  found  himself 
alone  in  the  North  Woods,  three  miles  from  Silsbee's  Sta- 
tion, twenty-one  years  old,  six  foot  one  inch  high,  in  per- 
fect health,  with  a  good  appetite.  He  had  gone  to  school 
one  summer;  he  could  read  and  write  fairly  well,  and 
could  cipher  very  well.  He  had  gone  through  the  history 
of  the  United  States,  and  he  had  a  hazy  idea  of  geography. 
When  his  father's  estate  was  settled  up,  and  all  debts  paid, 
Zadoc  owned  two  silver  dollars,  the  clothes  he  stood  in, 
one  extra  flannel  shirt,  done  up  in  a  bandanna  handker- 
chief in  company  with  a  razor,  a  comb,  a  toothbrush,  and 
two  collars.  Besides  these  things  he  had  a  six-inch  clasp- 
knife  and  an  old-fashioned  muzzle-loading  percussion-cap 
rifle. 

Old  man  Pine  had  been  a  good  Adirondack  guide  in 
his  time;  but  for  the  last  six  years  he  had  been  laid  up, 
a  helpless  cripple,  with  inflammatory  rheumatism.  He 
and  his  son  —  old  Pine's  wife  had  died  before  the  boy  was 
ten  years  old  —  lived  in  their  little  house  in  the  woods. 
The  father  had  some  small  savings,  and  the  son  could 
80 


THE  ZADOC  PINE  LABOR  UNION          8l 

earn  a  little  as  a  sort  of  auxiliary  guide.  He  got  a  job 
here  and  there  where  some  party  needed  an  extra  man. 
Zadoc  was  an  excellent  shot;  but  he  was  no  fisherman, 
and  he  had  little  knowledge  of  the  streams  and  ponds 
further  in  the  woods. 

So,  when  the  old  father  was  gone,  when  Zadoc  had 
paid  the  last  cent  of  his  debt  to  the  storekeeper  at  Sils- 
bee's  —  the  storekeeper  taking  the  almost  worthless 
shanty  of  the  Pines  in  part  payment  —  when  he  had  set- 
tled with  Silsbee's  saw-mill  for  the  boards  out  of  which 
he  himself  had  made  his  father's  coffin,  Zadoc  Pine  stood 
on  the  station  platform  and  wondered  what  was  going 
to  become  of  him,  or,  rather,  as  he  put  it,  "  what  he  was 
a-going  for  to  do  with  himself." 

There  was  no  employment  for  him  at  Silsbee's  Sta- 
tion. He  might,  perhaps,  get  a  job  as  guide;  but  it  was 
doubtful,  and  he  had  seen  too  much  of  the  life.  It  seemed 
to  him  a  waste  of  energy.  To  live  as  his  father  had  lived, 
a  life  of  toil  and  exposure,  a  dreary  existence  of  hard 
work  and  small  profit,  and  to  end  at  last  penniless  and  in 
debt  for  food,  was  no  part  of  Zadoc's  plans.  He  knew 
from  the  maps  in  the  old  geography  that  the  whole  Adi- 
rondack region  was  only  a  tiny  patch  on  the  map  of  the 
United  States.  Somewhere  outside  there  he  was  sure  he 
would  find  a  place  for  himself. 

He  knew  that  the  little  northern  railroad  at  his  feet 
connected  with  the  greater  roads  to  the  south.  But  the 
great  towns  of  the  State  were  only  so  many  names  to 
him.  His  eyes  were  not  turned  toward  New  York.  He 
had  "  guided "  for  parties  of  New  York  men,  and  he 


82  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

had  learned  enough  to  make  himself  sure  that  New  York 
was  too  large  for  him.  "  I  wouldn't  be  no  more  good 
down  there,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  then  they  be  up  here. 
'Tain't  my  size." 

Yet  somewhere  he  must  go.  He  had  watched  the  young 
men  who  employed  him,  and  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  two  things:  First,  these  young  men  had  money;  second, 
he  could  get  it  if  they  could.  One  had  jokingly  shown  him 
a  hundred-dollar  bill,  and  had  asked  him  to  change  it. 
There  was  some  part  of  the  world,  then,  where  people 
could  be  free  and  easy  with  hundred-dollar  bills.  Why 
was  not  that  the  place  for  him?  "They  know  a  lot 
more  'n  I  do,  "  he  said ;  "  but  they  hed  to  1'arn  it  fust-off; 
an'  I  guess  ef  their  brains  was  so  everlastin'  much  better'n 
mine  they  wouldn't  souse  'em  with  whiskey  the  wa>  they 
do." 

As  Zadoc  Pine  stood  on  the  platform,  feeling  of  the 
two  silver  dollars  in  his  pocket,  he  saw  the  wagon  drive  up 
from  Silsbee's  saw-mill  with  a  load  of  timber,  and  old 
Mr.  Silsbee  on  top  of  the  load.  There  was  a  train  of  flat 
cars  on  the  siding,  where  it  had  been  lying  for  an  hour, 
waiting  for  the  up  train.  When  the  wagon  arrived,  Mr. 
Silsbee,  the  station-master,  and  the  engineer  of  the  train 
had  a  three-cornered  colloquy  of  a  noisy  sort.  The  sta- 
tion-master after  awhile  withdrew,  shrugging  his  shoulders 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  declines  to  engage  further  in  a 
profitless  discussion. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Zadoc. 

"  That  there  lumber  of  Silsbee's,"  said  the  station- 
master,  who  was  a  New  England  man.  "  The  durned  old 


THE  ZADOC  PINE  LABOR  UNION         83 

tantankerous  cuss  is  kickin'  because  he  can't  ship  it.  Why, 
this  here  train's  so  short  o'  hands  they  can't  hardly  run 
it  ez  'tis,  let  alone  loadin'  lumber." 

"Where's  it  goin'  to?"  inquired  Zadoc,  "an'  why's 
this  train  short  o'  hands?" 

"  Goin'  to  South  Ridge,  Noo  Jersey,"  said  the  station- 
master,  "  or  'twould  be  ef  'twan't  for  this  blame  strike. 
Can't  get  nobody  to  load  it." 

"Where's  South   Ridge?"  was  Zadoc's  next  inquiry. 

"  'Bout  ten  or  twenty  miles  from  Noo  York." 

"  Country?  " 

"  Country  'nough,  I  guess.     Ask  Silsbee." 

Zadoc  walked  after  Mr.  Silsbee,  who  was  by  this  time 
marching  back  towards  the  saw-mill,  red  in  the  face  and 
puffing  hard.  Zadoc  got  in  front  of  him. 

"  Mornin',  Mr.  Silsbee,"  he  said. 

"  Mornin' —  er  —  who  are  ye  ?  Oh,  Enoch  Pine's  boy, 
hey  ?  Mornin',  young  man  —  I  hain't  got  no  time  —  " 

"  How  much  is  it  wuth  to  you  to  get  them  sticks  to 
where  they're  goin'  to?  "  demanded  Zadoc. 

"  Wuth?  It's  wuth  hundreds  of  dollars  to  me,  young 
man  —  it's  wuth  —  " 

"  Is  it  wuth  a  five-dollar  bill?"  Zadoc  interrupted. 

"  Whatyermean  ?  " 

"  You  know  me,  Squire  Silsbee.  If  it's  wuth  a  five- 
•Jollar  bill  to  get  them  timbers  down  to  South  Ridge,  New 
Jersey,  an'  you  can  get  that  engineer  to  take  me  on  as 
an  extra  hand  that  far,  I'll  load  'em  on,  go  down  there 
with  'em,  an'  unload  'em.  All  I  want's  five  dollars  foi 
my  keep  while  I'm  a-goin'." 


84  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

"You  don't  want  t'  go  to  South  Ridge?"  gasped  Mr. 
Silsbee. 

"  Yaas,  I  do." 

"Whut  fer?" 

"  Fer  my  health,"  said  Zadoc.  The  squire  looked  at 
the  muscular,  sunburnt  animal  before  him,  and  he  had  to 
grin. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  'tain't  none  o'  my  business.  You 
come  along,  an'  I'll  see  if  that  pig-headed  fool  will  let 
you  work  your  way  down." 

One  hour  later  Zadoc  was  rolling  southward  on  a 
flat  car,  and  learning  how  to  work  brakes  as  he  went.  It 
was  a  wonderful  pleasure  trip  to  him.  He  asked  noth- 
ing; he  was  strong  as  a  bull  moose;  and  he  was  sim- 
ply enchanted  to  see  the  great  world  stringing  itself  out 
along  the  line  of  the  railroad  track.  He  had  never  in  his 
life  seen  a  settlement  larger  than  Silsbee's,  and  when  the 
villages  turned  into  towns  and  the  towns  into  cities,  he 
was  so  much  interested  that  he  lost  his  appetite.  He  asked 
the  train  hands  all  the  questions  he  could  think  of,  and 
acquired  some  information,  although  they  did  not  care 
to  talk  about  much  except  the  great  strike  and  the  proba- 
ble action  of  the  unions. 

It  was  about  six  o'clock  of  a  cloudy  May  evening  when 
Zadoc  Pine  jumped  off  the  car  at  South  Ridge  and  helped 
to  unload  Mr.  Silsbee's  cargo  of  timber.  The  brakeman 
on  his  end  of  the  train  said,  "  So  long!  "  Zadoc  said  "  So 
(ong!"  and  the  train  whirled  on  to  New  York. 

Zadoc  stood   by  the  track  and   gazed  somewhat   dis- 


THE  ZADOC  PINE  LABOR  UNION          85 

mally  after  his  travelling  home.  He  was  roused  from 
something  like  a  brown  study  when  the  station-master  of 
South  Ridge  hailed  him. 

"Hi,  country!  where  are  you?" 

"  Is  this  New  Jersey?"  asked  Zadoc. 

"Yes.    What  did  you  think  it  was  — Ohio?" 

Zadoc  had  heard  something  of  the  national  reputation 
of  the  State  from  his  late  companions. 

"  Well,"  he  reflected,  "  I  must  be  pretty  mildewed 
when  a  Jerseyman  hollers  '  country  '  at  me." 

Zadoc  made  this  reflection  aloud.  The  station-master 
walked  off  with  a  growl,  and  two  or  three  gentlemen 
who  were  talking  on  the  platform  laughed  quietly.  Zadoc 
walked  up  to  one  of  them. 

"  I  brung  that  lumber  down  here,  "  he  said;  "  I'd  like 
to  know  who  owns  it.  Maybe  there's  more  job  in  it  fer 
me?" 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  one  of  the  gentlemen  said,  in  a 
rather  cold  and  distant  way.  "  That  is  for  the  new 
station,  and  the  railway  company  has  its  own  hands." 

Zadoc  looked  all  about  him.  There  was  no  town  to 
be  seen.  He  was  among  the  foot-hills  of  the  Orange 
Mountains,  and  on  all  sides  of  him  were  undulating 
slopes,  some  open,  some  wooded.  He  saw  old-fashioned 
farm-houses,  and  many  more  modern  dwellings,  of  what 
seemed  to  him  great  size  and  beauty,  although  they 
were  only  ordinary  suburban  cottages  of  the  better  sort. 
But  nowhere  could  he  see  shops  or  factories.  There  was 
a  quarry  high  up  on  one  of  the  slopes,  but  that  was  all. 
It  looked  like  a  poor  place  in  which  to  seek  for  work. 


86  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

"  Well,"  he  remarked,  "  maybe  there's  somewheres 
where  I  can  put  up  fer  to-night." 

"What  sort  of  place?"  the  gentleman  asked. 

"  Well,"  said  Zadoc,  "  some  sort  of  inn,  or  tavern,  or 
suthin',  where  I  c'n  get  about  ten  cents'  wuth  o'  style 
an'  ninety  cents'  wuth  o'  sleep  an'  feed." 

Two  of  the  gentlemen  laughed ;  but  the  one  to  whom 
Zadoc  had  spoken,  who  seemed  a  dignified  and  haughty 
person,  answered  in  a  chilly  and  discouraging  way: 

"  Go  down  this  street  to  the  cross-roads,  and  ask  for 
Bryan's.  That  is  where  the  quarrymen  board." 

He  turned  away,  and  went  in  the  other  direction  with 
his  companions.  Zadoc  Pine  shouldered  his  rifle,  picked 
up  the  handkerchief  which  held  his  other  belongings,  and 
trudged  down  the  road  under  the  new  foliage  of  the 
great  chestnuts.  He  came  in  a  little  while  to  the  cross- 
roads, where  there  were  four  huddled  blocks  of  shabby 
square  houses.  There  was  a  butcher's  shop,  a  grocer's,  a 
baker's,  three  or  four  drinking-places,  and  Bryan's.  This 
was  the  forlornest  house  of  all.  There  was  a  dirty  at- 
tempt at  an  ice-cream  saloon  in  the  front,  and  in  the  rear 
was  a  large  room  with  a  long  table,  where  the  quarrymen 
took  their  meals.  When  Zadoc  arrived,  the  quarrymen 
were  sitting  on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  house  with 
their  feet  in  the  gutter.  They  were  smoking  pipes  and 
talking  in  a  dull  way  among  themselves.  By  the  time 
that  Zadoc  had  bargained  for  a  room,  with  supper  and 
breakfast,  for  one  dollar,  supper  was  announced,  and  they 
all  came  in.  Zadoc  did  not  like  either  his  companions  or 
his  supper. 


THE  ZADOC  PINE  LABOR  UNION          87 

He  did  not  know  enough  of  the  distinguishing  marks 
of  various  nationalities  to  guess  at  the  nativity  of  these 
men,  but  he  knew  that  they  were  not  Americans.  He 
tried  to  talk  to  the  man  nearest  him,  but  the  man  did 
not  want  to  talk.  Zadoc  asked  him  about  the  work  and 
the  wages  at  the  quarry. 

"  It's  a  dollar-twinty-five  a  day,"  the  quarryman  said, 
sullenly;  "an*  it's  a  shame!  The  union  ain't  doin' 
nothin'  fer  us.  An'  there  ain't  no  more  quarrymen 
wanted.  There's  Milliken,  he  owns  the  carrts;  mebbe 
he'll  take  a  driver.  But  if  ye  want  a  job,  ye'll  have  to 
see  McCuskey,  the  dilligate." 

"What  might  a  dilligate  be?"  inquired  the  young 
man  from  the  North  Woods. 

"  The  mon  what  runs  the  union.  Ye're  a  union  mon, 
ain't  ye?  " 

"  Guess  not,"  said  Zadoc. 

"  Thin  y'd  best  be  out  of  this,"  the  man  said,  rising 
rudely  and  lumbering  off. 

"  Guess  I  won't  wake  McCuskey  up  in  the  mornin'," 
Zadoc  thought ;  "  dollar-'n-a-quarter's  big  money ;  but  I 
don't  want  no  sech  work  ez  quarryin',  ef  it  makes  a  dead 
log  of  a  man  like  that." 

He  finished  his  meal  and  went  into  the  street.  Bryan 
was  leaning  against  the  door-jamb,  conversing  with  a  tall 
man  on  the  sidewalk.  It  was  the  gentleman  whom  Zadoc 
had  seen  at  the  station. 

"  You  can't  get  him  this  week,  Mr.  Thorndyke,"  said 
Bryan.  "  Bixby's  ahead  of  you,  and  the  Baxters.  They 
been  waitin'  three  weeks  for  him.  Fact  is,  Andy  don't 


88  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

want  to  do  no  more  th'n  two  days'  work  in  a  week." 

"Can't  you  think  of  any  other  man?"  Mr.  Thorn- 
dyke  queried,  irritably.  "  Here  I  have  been  waiting  for 
this  fellow  a  whole  fortnight  to  dig  a  half-dozen  beds  in 
my  garden,  and  I  don't  believe  he  intends  to  come. 
There  ought  to  be  somebody  who  wants  the  job.  Can't 
some  of  these  men  here  come  after  hours,  or  before,  and 
do  it?  I  pay  well  enough  for  the  work." 

There  was  no  movement  among  the  quarrymen,  who 
were  once  more  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk,  with 
their  feet  in  the  gutter. 

"  I  don't  know  of  no  one,  Mr.  Thorndyke,"  said 
Bryan,  and  Mr.  Thorndyke  turned  back  up  the  road. 

"  Diggin'  garden-beds?  "  mused  Zadoc.  "  I  ain't  never 
dug  no  garden-beds ;  but  I  hev  dug  fer  bait,  'n  I  guess 
the  principle's  the  same  —  on'y  you  don't  hev  to  sort  out 
the  wums."  He  walked  rapidly  after  Mr.  Thorndyke, 
and  overtook  him. 

"  Don't  you  want  me  to  dig  them  beds  fer  you?  "  he 
inquired. 

"Can  you  dig  them?"  Mr.  Thorndyke  looked  sur- 
prised and  suspicious. 

"  That's  what  I'm  here  fer." 

"  Do  you  know  where  my  house  is?  The  third  on 
the  hill?" 

"  Third  she  is,"  said  Zadoc. 

"  Come  up  to-morrow  morning." 

Zadoc  went  back  to  Bryan's  and  went  to  bed  in  a 
narrow,  close  room,  overlooking  an  ill-kept  back  yard. 
It  was  dirty,  it  was  cheerless;  worst  of  all,  it  was  air- 


THE  ZADOC  PINE  LABOR  UNION         89 

less.     Zadoc's  mind  was  made  up.     "  Ef  this  suits  quarry- 
men,  quarryin'  don't  suit  me." 

He  had  a  bad  night,  and  arose  at  five  the  next  morning. 
At  six  he  went  to  a  breakfast  that  was  worse  than  the 
supper  had  been.  Zadoc  had  been  used  to  poor  and 
coarse  fare  all  his  life,  but  there  was  something  about 
this  flabby,  flavorless,  greasy,  boarding-house  food  that 
went  against  him.  He  ate  what  he  could,  and  then 
walked  up  the  road  toward  Mr.  Thorndyke's  house.  As 
he  went  higher  up  the  hill  he  saw  that  the  houses  at  the 
cross-roads  were  very  much  unlike  their  surroundings. 
To  a  man  born  and  brought  up  in  the  skirts  of  the 
North  Woods,  this  New  Jersey  village  seemed  a  very 
paradise.  The  green  lawns  amazed  him ;  the  neat  fences, 
the  broad  roads,  the  great  trees,  standing  clear  of  under- 
brush, were  all  marvels  in  his  eyes.  And  besides  the 
comfortable  farm-houses  and  the  mansions  of  the  rich 
and  great,  he  saw  many  humbler  dwellings  of  a  neat  and 
well-ordered  sort.  From  one  of  these  a  pretty  girl, 
standing  in  the  doorway,  with  her  right  arm  in  a  sling, 
looked  at  him  with  curiosity,  and  what  Zadoc  took  to  be 
kindly  interest.  It  was  really  admiration.  If  Zadoc  had 
ever  thought  to  enquire,  he  would  have  learned  that  he 
was  not  only  big,  but  good-looking. 

He  lingered  a  little  as  he  passed  this  place,  to  admire 
it.  The  house  had  two  stories,  of  which  the  lower  was 
of  rough  stone,  brightly  whitewashed.  In  front  was  a 
bit  of  a  garden,  in  which  green  things  were  sprouting. 
In  the  little  woodshed,  to  one  side,  a  neat  old  woman, 


50  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

with  pretty,  white  hair,  was  cutting  kindling-wood.  The 
girl  in  the  doorway  was  very  pretty,  if  her  arm  was  in 
a  sling.  Zadoc  looked  it  all  over  with  entire  approval. 
"  That's  my  size,"  he  thought. 

He  found  no  one  awake  at  Mr.  Thorndyke's  house, 
and  he  sat  on  the  front  steps  until  half-past  seven  o'clock, 
when  Mr.  Thorndyke  himself  came  out  to  get  the  morn- 
ing paper,  which  had  been  left  on  the  front  porch.  Zadoc 
had  read  it  through  already. 

"  You  are  early,"  was  Mr.  Thorndyke's  greeting. 

"  I  was  earlier  when  I  come,"  returned  Zadoc.  "  Been 
here  more'n  an  hour.  Awful  waste  o'  God's  sunlight, 
when  there's  work  a-waitin." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Thorndyke  coldly,  as  he  led  the 
way  around  the  corner  of  the  house,  "  here  are  the  beds. 
The  lines  are  pegged  out.  I  suppose  there  is  about  a  day's 
work  on  them,  and  I  will  pay  you  at  the  usual  rate  for 
gardeners'  work,  hereabouts  —  a  dollar  and  a  half." 

"  Yaas,"  said  Zadoc,  as  he  looked  over  the  territory 
staked  out,  "  I  see.  But  if  this  job's  wuth  a  dollar-V- 
a-half  to  you,  I'd  ruther  take  it  ez  a  job,  at  them  riggers. 
I  can  fool  away  a  day  on  it,  ef  that'll  please  you  better; 
but  I'd  ruther  git  through  with  it  when  I  git  through,  ef 
it's  all  the  same  to  you." 

"  I  don't  care  how  you  do  it,"  Mr.  Thorndyke  said, 
"  so  long  as  it  is  done,  and  done  properly,  when  I  come 
home  to-night  at  six." 

"  You  needn't  put  off  coming  home  for  me,"  was  Za- 
doc's  cheerful  assurance. 

Then  he  proceeded  to  ask  Mr.  Thorndyke  a  number 


THE  ZADOC  PINE  LABOR  UNION         91 

of  questions  about  the  manner  in  which  the  beds  were 
to  be  dug.  Mr.  Thorndyke  knit  his  brows. 

"Haven't  you  ever  dug  beds  before?" 

"  I  never  dug  no  beds  fer  you.  When  I  do  work  fer 
a  man  I  do  it  to  suit  him,  an'  not  to  suit  some  other 
feller." 

"  How  do  I  know  that  you  can  do  the  work  at  all?  " 

"  You  don't,"  said  Zadoc,  frankly ;  "  but  ef  'tain't  sat- 
isfactory you  don't  hev  to  pay.  Thet's  cheap  fer  a  hole 
in  the  ground." 

"Have  you  a  spade?"  Mr.  Thorndyke  demanded, 
and  his  manner  was  depressingly  stern. 

"  No,  I  ain't,"  said  Zadoc,  "  but  I'll  git  one." 

Zadoc  walked  up  to  the  next  house  on  the  hill,  which 
was  a  large  and  imposing  structure  It  belonged  to  the 
richest  man  in  South  Ridge,  and  the  richest  man  was  sit- 
ting on  his  front  porch. 

"  Got  a  spade  to  lend?  "  Zadoc  asked. 

"What  do  you  want  it  for?"  the  richest  man  de- 
manded. 

"  Fer  a  job  down  there  to  Squire  Thorndyke's,  next 
door,"  Zadoc  informed  him. 

"  Did  Mr.  Thorndyke  send  you?" 

"  No,  I  come  myself." 

The  millionaire  of  South  Ridge  stared  at  Zadoc  for 
a  moment,  and  then  arose,  walked  around  the  house, 
and  presently  reappeared  with  a  spade.  "  When  you 
bring  this  back,"  he  said,  "  give  it  to  the  man  in  the 
stable." 


92  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

"  Much  obliged !  "  said  Zadoc. 

The  beds  were  all  dug  before  three  o'clock,  and  Mrs. 
Thorndyke  came  out  and  expressed  her  approval.  Zadoc 
took  off  his  hat  and  bowed,  as  his  father  had  told  him 
he  should  do  when  he  met  a  lady. 

"  I  see,"  he  remarked,  "  you've  got  some  mornin'-glories 
set  out  alongside  o'  the  house.  Ef  you'll  get  me  a  ladder 
an'  some  string,  an*  nails  an'  a  hammer,  I'll  train  'em 
up  fer  yer." 

Mrs.  Thorndyke  looked  doubtful. 

"  I  don't  know  what  arrangement  my  husband  has 
made  with  you,"  she  began ;  but  Zadoc  interrupted  her. 

"  There  ain't  nothin'  to  pay  fer  that,  ma'am.  One 
pertater  on  top  'f  the  measure  don't  break  no  one,  and 
it  kinder  holds  trade." 

The  ladder  and  the  other  things  were  brought  out, 
and  Zadoc  climbed  up  and  fastened  the  strings  as  he  had 
seen  them  arranged  for  the  morning-glories  that  climbed 
up  the  walls  of  Squire  Silsbee's  house. 

While  he  was  on  the  ladder,  the  rich  man  next  door, 
whose  name,  by  the  way,  was  Vredenburg,  came  down 
and  leaned  on  the  fence  and  talked  to  Mrs.  Thorndyke. 

"  Getting  the  place  in  good  trim,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  Trying  to,"  said  Mrs.  Thorndyke.  "  There  are  ever 
so  many  things  to  do.  I've  sent  to  three  men  already,  to 
cart  my  ash-heap  away,  and  they  won't  come.  There's  a 
wandering  gardener  here  who  has  just  dug  my  beds;  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  him,  I  should  have  gone  without  flowers 
all  the  summer." 

Zadoc  heard  this  and  grinned;  and  then  he  began  to 


THE  ZADOC  PINE  LABOR  UNION         93 

think.  He  had  been  looking  over  toward  the  quarry 
during  the  day,  and  he  had  noticed  that  the  horses  stood 
idle  a  large  part  of  the  time.  There  was  one  tall  gray 
hitched  to  a  cart,  whose  business  it  was  to  remove  the 
small  stones  and  waste,  and  who  did  not  make  one  trip 
an  hour,  resting  for  the  greater  part  of  the  time  under  a 
huge  tree. 

"  That  horse  ain't  too  tired,"  thought  Zadoc,  "  to 
give  a  feller  a  lift  after  workin'  hours." 

By  four  o'clock  the  strings  were  up  for  the  morning- 
glories.  Mr.  Thorndyke  would  not  return  before  six. 
Zadoc  strolled  down  to  the  quarry  and  found  Milliken. 
He  asked  Milliken  what  would  be  a  proper  charge  for 
the  services  of  the  big  gray  horse  for  two  hours  after  six 
o'clock.  Milliken  thought  fifty  cents  would  pay  him 
and  the  horse.  Then  Zadoc  continued  his  stroll,  and 
found  out  that  the  dumping-grounds  of  South  Ridge 
were  near  the  river,  among  the  tailings  of  an  abandoned 
quarry. 

After  that  he  went  back  to  Bryan's  and  got  a  couple  of 
eggs  cooked  for  his  private  supper.  He  had  had  his  din- 
ner at  the  noon  hour,  and  it  was  worse  than  the  break- 
fast. The  eggs  were,  as  he  told  Mr.  Bryan,  "  kinder 
'twixt  grass  and  hay."  He  felt  that  he  had  had  enough 
of  Bryan's. 

Going  up  the  road  to  Mr.  Thorndyke's,  he  came  to 
the  neat  little  house  that  he  had  noticed  the  night  before; 
he  looked  at  it  for  a  minute,  and  then  he  went  in  and 
asked  the  white-haired  old  woman  if  she  did  not  want 
to  take  him  as  a  boarder.  She  said  that  she  did  not ;  she 


94  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

was  a  lone  widow-woman,  and  she  had  all  she  could  do  to 
pay  her  way  with  doing  washing,  and  she  didn't  want  no 
quarrymen  fooling  around  her  house;  she  knew  what 
quarry  men  were. 

Zadoc  explained  to  her  that  he  was  not  a  quarryman. 
He  told  her  all  about  himself,  and  about  his  dissatisfaction 
with  Bryan's  arrangements;  but  she  only  shook  her  head 
and  said  that  she  didn't  want  him.  He  was  going  out  of 
the  door,  when  the  young  girl  who  had  smiled  on  him 
yesterday,  and  who  had  been  listening  in  a  corner,  came 
forward  and  spoke  earnestly  to  the  old  woman. 

"  He  looks  good,  mother,"  Zadoc  heard  her  say;  "  and 
it's  to  his  credit  that  he  don't  like  Bryan's.  If  he's  a 
decent  man,  we  oughtn't  to  send  him  back  to  a  place 
like  that.  It's  a  shame  for  a  young  man  to  be  left  among 
those  people." 

The  old  woman  wavered.  "  We  might  try  him,"  she 
said. 

Zadoc  came  back. 

"  You  try  me,  and  you'll  keep  me,"  said  he.  "  An'  ez 
fer  you,  young  woman,  ef  you  use  ez  much  judgment 
when  you  pick  out  a  husband  ez  you  do  when  you  choose 
a  boarder,  you'll  do  first-rate."  The  young  woman 
blushed. 

Then  they  talked  about  the  proper  price  of  Zadoc's 
board,  and  they  all  agreed  that  two  dollars  a  week  would 
be  fair.  Zadoc  paid  down  the  two  dollars  in  advance, 
and  was  without  a  cent  in  the  world,  for  Bryan  had 
taken  his  other  dollar  for  the  two  bad  meals.  But  Zadoc 
did  not  mind  that  and  within  fifteen  minutes  he  had 


THE  ZADOC  PINE  LABOR  UNION         95 

moved  his  possessions  into  a  clean  little  whitewashed 
room  in  the  second  story  of  the  widow  Dadd's  house. 
The  widow  was  much  troubled  at  the  sight  of  his  rifle; 
but  she  finally  consented  to  let  it  hang  on  his  white  wall ; 
and  Zadoc  ate  his  supper,  although  he  had  eaten  one  al- 
ready, and  made  the  meal  as  cheerful  as  he  could  to  Mrs. 
Dadd  and  her  daughter,  which  was  not  difficult  to  him, 
for  it  was  a  good  supper.  A  little  before  six  he  marched 
off  to  Mr.  Thorndyke's. 

Mr.  Thorndyke  paid  him  his  dollar  and  a  half;  and 
Zadoc  broached  a  new  project. 

"  There's  that  there  ash-heap  o'  yourn,"  he  said,  "  why 
can't  I  cart  that  off  fer  you?" 

"  But  you  haven't  a  cart,"  Mr.  Thorndyke  objected. 

"  I'll  have  one,"  Zadoc  said.  "  What's  the  job 
wuth  ?  " 

"  I've  always  paid  a  dollar." 

Zadoc  rubbed  his  chin  and  mused.  "  I'll  call  on  ye 
for  thet  dollar  when  I've  earned  it,"  he  said. 
"  Evenin'!  " 

Zadoc  had  been  at  the  back  of  the  house  during  the 
day,  and  had  sized  up  the  ash-heap,  as  well  as  one  or  two 
other  things.  He  walked  down  to  the  quarry  and  got 
the  big  gray  and  his  cart,  and  drove  up  to  the  Thorn- 
dykes'  back  yard.  There  he  shovelled  the  ash-heap  (the 
shovel  went  with  the  horse  and  cart)  into  the  vehicle. 
There  was  just  one  load.  There  had  been  a  heavy  rain 
during  the  night,  and  the  ashes  were  packed  close.  The 
cart  held  a  cubic  yard,  and  it  was  not  overloaded  when 
Zadoc  drove  it  down  the  road  toward  the  old  quarry. 


9b  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

As  he  drove  he  looked  ahead,  and  he  noticed  that  the 
sidewalks,  or  raised  paths  to  right  and  left  of  the  road, 
were  made  of  ashes  pounded  down — not  cinders  from  the 
railroad,  but  ordinary  hard-coal  ashes,  beaten  into  a  com- 
pact mass.  Before  he  had  driven  half  a  mile  he  saw, 
some  hundred  feet  in  front  of  him,  a  broad  break  in  the 
sidewalk  to  his  right  —  a  gully  washed  out  by  the  rain. 
He  stopped  his  horse  behind  a  clump  of  trees,  alighted, 
and  walked  forward  to  the  gate  in  front  of  a  comfortable 
house.  The  owner  was  pottering  about,  looking  at  the 
vines  that  were  beginning  to  climb  up  the  wires  on  his 
veranda.  Zadoc  accosted  him. 

"  Evenin' !  You've  got  a  bad  hole  in  that  there  path 
o'  yourn." 

"  Are  you  a  road-inspector  ?  "  asked  the  man  of  the 
house,  in  a  disagreeable  tone  of  voice. 

"  No,"  said  Zadoc,  "I'm  a  road-mender.  You've  got 
ter  fill  that  hole  up.  S'pose  I  fill  it  up  fer  you  fer  fifty 
cents?" 

"  Yer  ain't  going  to  drive  out  here  and  mend  that  walk 
for  half  a  dollar,  are  you  ?  "  the  man  asked,  incredulously. 

"  I'm  a-goin'  to  take  it  on  my  reggleler  rowt,"  replied 
Zadoc.  "  Does  she  go?  " 

The  man  looked  over  the  fence  at  the  big  hole.  "  She 
goes,"  he  said. 

It  was  just  one  hour  later,  when  some  light  lingered 
in  the  sky,  that  the  householder  with  the  broken  sidewalk 
paid  Zadoc  Pine  his  fifty  cents.  He  paid  it  with  a  dazed 
look  on  his  face;  but  Zadoc  was  as  bright  and  airy  as 
usual  as  he  pocketed  the  money  and  drove  back  to  the 


THE  ZADOC  PINE  LABOR  UNION          97 

quarry-stables.  His  cubic  yard  of  ashes  had  filled  the 
gap  and  left  a  little  over,  with  which  he  had  patched  a 
few  smaller  breaks. 

When  Zadoc  arose  on  the  morrow  and  stepped  out 
of  doors  to  breathe  the  morning  air,  he  saw  the  white- 
haired  widow  chopping  kindling-wood  in  the  shed. 

"  That  ain't  no  work  fer  you,"  he  said. 

"  Who's  to  do  it?  "  the  widow  asked;  "  my  darter,  her 
arm's  lame.  She  lamed  it  snatchin'  a  child  off  the  rail- 
road-track in  front  of  the  engyne.  The  engyne  hit  her. 
It  was  one  o'  them  delegate's  children,  an'  no  thanks  to 
nobody.  Who's  to  chop  kindlin'  if  I  don't  ?  " 

"  I  be,  I  reckon,"  said  Zadoc.  He  took  the  hatchet 
out  of  her  hands  and  split  up  a  week's  supply.  It  was 
sharp  work  on  an  empty  stomach;  but  he  took  it  out  of 
the  breakfast,  a  little  later. 

After  breakfast  he  walked  down  to  Centre,  the  nearest 
large  town,  and  spent  an  hour  in  a  paint-shop  there.  He 
asked  a  great  many  questions,  and  the  men  in  the  shop 
had  a  good  deal  of  fun  with  him.  Zadoc  knew  it,  but  he 
did  not  care.  "  Amooses  them,  don't  hurt  me,  an'  keeps 
the  derned  fools  talkin',"  he  said  to  himself. 

He  returned  to  South  Ridge  in  time  for  dinner,  and 
in  the  afternoon  sallied  out  to  look  for  a  job.  Remem- 
bering the  Bixbys  and  the  Baxters,  and  the  fact  that 
"  Andy  "  did  not  care  for  more  than  two  days'  work  in 
the  week,  Zadoc  thought  he  would  offer  his  services  to 
the  two  families.  "  Thar'  ain't  no  room  in  this  world," 
he  reflected,  "  for  two-day  men.  The  six-day  men  has 
first  call  on  all  jobs." 


98  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

'  The  Bixbys  gave  him  the  work,  and  paid  him  a  dol- 
lar for  the  afternoon's  work;  but  he  could  not  come  to 
terms  with  the  Baxters.  They  wanted  him  to  take  fifty 
cents  for  half  a  day's  work. 

"  But  you'd  'a'  had  ter  pay  that  there  other  feller  a 
dollar,"  Zadoc  objected. 

"  But  that's  different,"  said  Mrs.  Baxter;  "you  aren't 
a  regular  gardener  you  know." 

"The  job  ain't  different,"  replied  Zadoc;  "and  ef 
Andy  c'n  get  a  dollar  fer  it,  I'm  a-goin'  to  let  him  have 
it."  And  he  shook  his  long  legs  down  the  road. 

He  loomed  up,  long  and  bony,  before  Mr.  Thorn- 
dyke  just  after  dinner. 

"  You've  come  to  cart  the  ash-heap  away,  I  suppose  ?  " 
Mr.  Thorndyke  said. 

"  That  ash-heap  moved  out  of  town  last  evenin'.  Ef 
you've  got  time,  though,  I  want  yer  to  step  around  to 
the  back  o'  the  house.  Got  somethin'  to  show  yer." 

The  "  something "  was  Mr.  Thorndyke's  barn.  He 
kept  no  horse;  but  the  small  building  that  goes  with 
every  well-regulated  cottage  in  New  Jersey  he  utilized 
as  a  play-room  for  his  children  and  a  gymnasium  for 
himself. 

"  That  there  barn,"  Zadoc  told  him,  "  is  jest  a  sight  to 
look  at.  It  stands  to  the  north  o'  the  house,  an'  takes 
all  the  weather  there  is.  The  paint's  most  off  it.  Look 
at  these  here  big  scales !  I  took  one  of  those  there  fer  a 
sample,  and  here's  the  color,  the  way  it  ought  to  be,  on 
this  here  bit  o'  shingle."  Zadoc  pulled  the  sample  out  of 
his  pocket.  "  Now  you  wanter  let  me  paint  that  barn 


THE  ZADOC  PINE  LABOR  UNION         99 

for  yer.  I've  figgered  thet  it'll  cost  yer  jest  twenty-five 
dollars.  Thet's  a  savin'  for  you,  an'  I  c'n  take  my  time 
about  it,  and  put  in  a  week  on  the  job  an'  do  some  other 
\vork  round  the  town  at  the  same  time." 

"Have  you  other  engagements?"  Mr.  Thorndyke 
asked. 

"No,"  was  Zadoc's  answer;  "but  I'm  goin'  to  hev 
'em." 

"  But  do  you  know  how  to  paint?  " 

"  Anythin'  the  matter  with  my  gardenin'?" 

"  No." 

"  All  right  on  ash-heaps,  ain't  I?  " 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  Well,  you  jest  try  me  on  paint.  Same  old  terms  — 
no  satisfaction,  no  pay.  I  can't  make  that  there  barn 
look  wuss'n  it  does  now;  an'  I'm  goin'  ter  make  it  look  a 
heap  better." 

The  next  afternoon  Zadoc  was  painting  the  Thorndyke 
barn.  He  worked  there  only  in  the  afternoons;  in  the 
mornings  he  hunted  up  odd  jobs  about  the  town,  and  the 
money  he  got  for  these  he  took  to  Centre  and  invested  in 
paint  and  brushes.  As  he  paid  cash,  he  had  to  buy  in 
small  quantities ;  but  when  the  barn  was  painted  —  and 
it  was  painted  to  Mr.  Thorndyke's  satisfaction  —  Zadoc 
found  himself  something  more  like  a  capitalist  than  he 
had  ever  been  in  his  life. 

But  there  was  one  unpleasant  incident  connected  with 
this  job.  He  was  sitting  one  afternoon  in  the  children's 
swing,  which  he  had  borrowed  to  use  in  painting  those 
parts  of  the  barn  which  he  could  not  reach  with  a  ladder: 


ioo  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

he  tied  the  ends  of  the  ropes  around  the  cupola,  twisted 
himself  up  to  the  ridge-pole,  and  untwisted  himself  as  he 
painted  downward.  He  was  slathering  away  on  his 
second  coat,  whistling  cheerily  to  himself,  when  a  man 
in  overalls  and  a  painty  jacket  came  up  and  made  some 
remarks  about  the  weather.  Zadoc  told  him  that  the 
weather  was  a  good  thing  to  take  as  it  came;  and  then 
the  man  inquired: 

"  Do  you  belong  to  the  union  ?  " 

"  What  union?  "  asked  Zadoc;  "  I  ain't  no  Canuck,  ef 
thet's  what  yer  mean." 

"  The  house-painters'  union,"  said  the  man. 

"  Well,  no,"  said  Zadoc,  still  slathering  away,  with 
his  head  on  one  side.  "  Guess  I'm  union  enough,  all  by 
myself.  I'm  perfectly  united,  I  am  —  all  harmonious 
and  unanimous  an'  comfortable." 

"What  are  you  a-paintin'  for,  then?"  demanded  the 
stranger. 

"  Fer  money,"  said  Zadoc.  "  What  are  you  a-foolin' 
around  here  for?  " 

"  Have  you  ever  served  an  apprenticeship  to  this  busi- 
ness? "  the  man  asked. 

"  Hev  you  ever  served  an  apprenticeship  ter  rollin'  off 
a  log?"  Zadoc  asked,  by  way  of  answer. 

The  man  muttered  something  and  moved  away. 
Zadoc  communed  with  himself. 

"  Ap-prenticeship  ter  sloppin'  paint !  Well,  I  be 
derned!  Why,  fool-work  like  thet's  born  in  a  man, 
same's  swimmin'." 


THE  ZADOC  PINE  LABOR  UNION        101 

As  Zadoc  became  known  to  the  community  he  found 
that  work  came  right  to  his  hand.  The  laboring  native 
of  South  Ridge  was  the  sort  of  man  who  said,  when  a 
job  was  offered  to  him,  "Well,  I  guess  I'll  take  a  day 
off  some  time  week  arter  next  and  'tend  to  it."  This  en- 
ergetic person  from  the  North  Woods,  who  made  en- 
gagements and  kept  them,  was  a  revelation  to  the  house- 
holders of  the  town.  He  mended  fences  and  roads;  he 
cut  grass  and  sodded  lawns;  he  put  in  panes  of  glass  and 
whitewashed  kitchens ;  he  soldered  leaky  refrigerators  and 
clothes-boilers;  he  made  paths  and  dug  beds;  he  beat  car- 
pets and  pumped  water  into  garret  tanks  —  in  short,  he 
did  everything  that  a  man  can  do  with  muscle  and  intelli- 
gent application.  He  was  not  afraid  to  do  a  thing  be- 
cause he  had  never  done  it  before. 

Moreover,  he  made  his  services  acceptable  by  doing, 
as  a  rule,  more  than  his  contract  called  for.  He  was  not 
above  treating  his  employers  as  so  many  fellow  human 
beings.  When  the  doctor  prescribed  wild-cherry  cordial 
for  Mrs.  Thorndyke,  Zadoc  put  in  a  whole  afternoon 
in  scouring  the  country  for  wild  cherries,  and  brought 
back  a  large  basketful.  He  would  take  no  pay. 

"  Them's  with  my  compliments,"  he  said.  "  They 
growed  wild,  an'  I  guess  they  growed  wild  a-puppus. 
Knowed  thar  was  sick  folks  a-needin'  of  'em,  mebbe." 

But  it  was  not  to  be  all  plain  sailing  for  Zadoc.  One 
evening  he  went  home  to  the  widow  Dadd's,  and  found 
the  widow  in  tears  and  her  daughter  flushed  and  indig- 
nant. They  told  him  that  a  "  boycott  "  had  been  de- 


102  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

clared  against  him  for  doing  union  men's  work,  and 
against  them  for  harboring  him.  The  butcher  of  the 
town,  who  was  also  the  green-grocer,  would  sell  Mrs. 
Dadd  nothing  more  until  she  turned  Zadoc  out  of  doors. 
Centre  was  the  nearest  town  from  which  she  could  get 
supplies,  and  Centre  was  three  miles  away. 

Zadoc  walked  over  to  the  butcher's  shop.  The  butcher 
was  a  German. 

"What's  this  here,  Schmitzer?"  he  demanded. 
"Ain't  my  money  good  enough  fer  you?" 

"  I  ken't  help  it,  Mr.  Pine,"  said  Schmitzer,  sullenly. 
"  If  I  don'  boygott  you,  dem  fellis  boygott  me.  I  got 
noddin'  against  you,  Mr.  Pine,  but  I  ken't  sell  you  no 
mead,  nor  Mrs.  Tatt  neider." 

"  Runnin'  me  out  of  town,  are  ye?"  Zadoc  said. 
"  Well,  we  run  men  out  whar  I  come  from.  But  we 
don't  run  'em  out  unless  they've  done  suthin',  an'  they 
don't  let  'emselves  be  run  out  unless  they've  done  suthin'. 
1  ain't  done  nothin'  but  what  I  ought,  an'  I'm  a-goin'  ter 
stay  here." 

He  went  back  to  the  widow  Dadd's,  and  told  her  that 
he  would  take  charge  of  the  commissariat.  That  night 
he  got  a  large  packing-case,  which  Mr.  Vredenburg  was 
quite  willing  to  give  hem,  and  a  barrow-load  of  saw-dust 
from  the  waste-heap  at  the  saw-mill.  After  an  hour's 
work  he  had  a  fairly  good  ice-box,  and  by  the  next  night 
he  had  that  box  filled  with  ice  from  Centre  and  with 
meat  and  vegetables  from  New  York.  Zadoc  read  th<.1 
papers;  he  had  seen  the  market  reports,  and  now  he  was 
able  to  determine,  by  actual  experiment,  the  difference 


THE  ZADOC  PINE  LABOR  UNION        103 

between  South  Ridge  prices  and  New  York  market  prices. 
He  discovered  that  the  difference  was  very  nearly  forty 
per  cent.  The  express  company's  charge  for  transporta- 
tion was  forty  cents  for  an  ordinary  flour-barrel  well 
packed. 

Zadoc  saw  a  new  vista  opening  before  him.  He  called 
on  Mr.  Thorndyke,  and  proposed  to  do  that  stately  per- 
son's marketing,  and  to  divide  the  forty  per  cent,  profit 
evenly  between  them.  Mr.  Thorndyke  was  at  first 
doubtful  and  suspicious.  He  cross-examined  Zadoc,  and 
found  out  what  had  started  the  young  man  on  this  new 
line.  Then  his  manners  changed.  Mr.  Thorndyke  was 
not  in  the  habit  of  carrying  himself  very  graciously  toward 
those  whom  he  considered  his  social  inferiors.  But  now 
he  grasped  Zadoc's  hand  and  shook  it  heartily. 

"  I'm  glad  to  know  this,  Pine,"  he  said.  "  If  you've 
got  the  pluck  to  fight  those  cowardly  brutes  and  their 
boycott,  I'll  stand  by  you.  You  may  try  your  hand  at 
the  marketing,  and  if  you  suit  Mrs.  Thorndyke,  all 
right.  If  you  don't,  we'll  find  something  else  for  you 
to  do." 

Zadoc  went  in  town  on  the  morrow  with  a  list  of  Mrs. 
Thorndyke's  domestic  needs.  He  had,  on  his  previous 
visit,  sought  out  the  venders  who  dealt  in  only  one  quality 
of  goods,  and  that  the  best.  To  these,  in  his  ignorance 
of  the  details  of  marketing,  he  thought  it  best  to  apply, 
although  their  higher  prices  diminished  his  profits.  In 
this  way  he  was  able  to  send  home  a  full  week's  supply 
of  the  best  meat  and  vegetables  in  the  market.  They 
proved  to  be  better  than  Schmitzer's  best-  and  Mr.  Thorn- 


104  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

dyke  paid  a  bill  smaller  by  one-fifth  than  he  had  ever  re- 
ceived from  Schmitzer.  Zadoc  was  only  forty-three 
cents  to  the  good;  but  he  had  made  his  point.  Within 
one  month  he  was  buying  for  ten  families,  and  receiving 
the  blessing  of  ten  weary  housewives,  who  found  it  easier 
to  sit  down  of  a  Friday  night,  lay  out  a  bill  of  fare  for  a 
week,  and  hand  it  to  Zadoc  Pine  with  a  tranquil  dismissal 
of  all  further  care,  than  it  had  been  to  meet  every  re- 
curring morning  the  old,  old  question,  What  shall  we 
have  for  dinner  to-day?  And  Zadoc  found  his  profit 
therein. 

.  One  warm  evening  in  September,  Zadoc  Pine  sat  in 
the  front  yard  of  the  widow  Dadd's  house,  whittling  a 
plug  for  the  cider-barrel.  He  looked  up  from  his  whit- 
tling and  saw  a  party  of  a  dozen  men  come  up  the  road 
and  stop  at  the  gate.  He  arose  and  went  forward  to 
meet  them. 

"  Good-evenin',  friends!  "  he  said,  driving  his  jack-knife 
into  the  top  rail  of  the  fence  and  leaning  over  the  pickets : 
"  Want  to  see  me,  I  s'pose?  What  c'n  I  do  fer  ye?  " 

One  man  came  forward  and  put  himself  at  the  head 
of  the  party.  Zadoc  knew  him  by  sight.  It  was  Mc- 
Cuskey,  the  "  walking-delegate." 

"  You  can  get  out  of  this  town,"  said  McCuskey,  "  as 
fast  as  you  know  how  to.  We'll  give  you  ten  hours." 

"  That's  friendly-like,"  said  Zadoc.  "  I  ain't  had  a 
present  o'  ten  hours'  free  time  made  me  since  I  wuz  a  boy 
at  school." 

"  Well,"   McCuskey  broke  in,  annoyed  at  some  sup- 


THE  ZADOC  PINE  LABOR  UNION       105 

pressed  laughter  in  his  rear,  "  you  can  take  them  ten 
hours  and  use  them  to  get  out  of  South  Ridge." 

"  Ken,  eh?  "  said  Zadoc.  "  Well,  now,  ef  I've  gotter 
go,  I've  gotter  go.  I  ain't  got  no  objection.  But  I  jest 
wanter  know  what  I've  gotter  go  fer.  Then  maybe  I'll 
see  if  I'll  go  or  not." 

"  You  have  got  to  go,"  McCuskey  began,  "  because 
you  have  interfered  with  the  inalienable  rights  of  labor; 
because  you  have  taken  the  bread  out  of  the  mouths  of 
honest  toilers  —  " 

"  Sho!  "  Zadoc  interrupted  him,  "don't  talk  no  sech 
fool-talk  ez  that!  I  ain't  taken  no  bread  outer  no  man's 
mouth.  I  ain't  got  down  to  that  yet.  S'pose  you  tell 
me  in  plain  English  what  I've  done  to  be  run  outer  town 
fer?" 

There  was  more  hushed  laughter  in  the  spokesman's 
rear,  and  he  set  his  teeth  angrily  before  he  opened  his 
lips  again. 

"  You  have  no  trade,  and  you  have  taken  jobs  away 
from  men  who  have  trades.  You  took  away  a  painter's 
job  when  you  painted  that  barn  on  the  hill." 

"  I  didn't  take  away  no  painter's  job.  It  wasn't  no- 
body's job  —  it  wasn't  no  job  at  all  until  I  made  a  job 
of  it.  Ef  the  painter  wanted  it,  why  didn't  he  go  an' 
get  it?" 

"  You've  took  away  Andy  Conner's  gardening-work  all 
around  the  town." 

"  That's  so !  "  from  Andy  Conner,  at  the  back  of  the 
crowd. 

"  Where  was  Andy  Conner  when  I  took  his  jobs  away 


io6  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

from  him  ? "  Zadoc  asked,  and  answered  himself : 
"  Drunk,  in  Bryan's  back  yard.  Andy  Conner  works 
two  days  in  the  week,  an'  I  work  six.  I  ain't  got  no 
time  to  be  sortin'  out  Andy  Conner's  jobs  from  mine." 

Then  there  came  a  husky  howl  from  out  the  thickest 
of  the  crowd. 

"  Veil,  you  take  avay  my  chob,  anyhow !  You  take 
my  bissness  avay  —  you  take  my  boocher  bissness." 

"Ah!"  said  Zadoc,  "that's  you,  Schmitzer,  is  it? 
Yes,  ye're  right.  I'm  takin'  yer  job  away  —  the  best  I 
know  how.  But  I  didn't  take  it  away  until  you  took  the 
food  outer  my  mouth  —  thet's  what  ye  did,  an'  no  fancy 
talk,  neither  —  an'  outer  the  mouths  o'  two  helpless  wim- 
min.  An'  under  them  circumstances,  every  time,  I'd 
take  your  job  away,  ef  you  was  the  President  of  the 
United  States." 

This  was  a  solemn  asseveration  for  Zadoc.  He  respect- 
ed the  office  of  the  President  of  the  United  States.  But 
it  was  lost  on  his  hearers.  No  man  in  that  crowd  re- 
spected the  President  of  the  United  States.  There  came 
a  low,  growling  murmur  from  the  group: 

"  Kill  him !     Hang  the  scab !     Kill  him  1 " 

"Kill?" 

Zadoc  let  out  a  voice  that  only  the  Adirondack  hills 
had  heard  before.  Then  he  checked  himself,  and  talked 
quietly,  yet  so  that  every  man  on  the  street  heard  him. 

"  I  came  from  the  North  Woods,"  he  said.  "  They 
make  men  whar  I  came  from.  I  ain't  wronged  no  man 
in  this  town.  I  come  here  to  make  my  livin',  an'  here 
I'll  stay.  Ef  you  wanter  fight,  I'll  fight  yer,  one  at  a 


THE  ZADOC  PINE  LABOR  UNION        107 

time,  or  the  hull  gang!  Ye  can  kill  me,  but  ye've  gotter 
kill  me  here.  An'  ef  it  comes  ter  killin',  I  c'n  hold  my 
end  up.  I  c'n  kill  a  rabbit  at  forty  rod,  an'  I  own  my 
rifle  yit.  But  I  know  ye  won't  give  me  no  fair  fight;  ye 
want  to  crawl  up  behind  me.  Well,  I'm  a  man  from 
the  woods.  I  c'n  hear  ye  half  a  mile  off,  an'  I  c'n  smell 
ye  a  hundred  yards." 

He  made  an  end,  and  stood  looking  at  them.  He  had 
picked  up  his  big  jack-knife,  and  was  jabbing  its  blade 
deep  into  the  top  rail  of  the  fence  and  picking  it  out 
again.  A  silence  fell  upon  the  crowd.  Zadoc  Pine  was 
a  large  man  and  a  strong  man.  He  had  a  knife,  and 
in  the  doorway  behind  him  stood  the  widow  Dadd's 
daughter  with  his  rifle,  held  ready  for  him. 

Zadoc  broke  the  silence. 

"  Boys,"  he  said,  "  I  ain't  no  hog.  I  want  you  to  un- 
derstand thet  I'm  goin'  to  earn  my  own  livin'  my  own 
way.  I  take  what  work  I  c'n  get;  an'  ef  other  folks  is 
shif'less  enough  ter  leave  their  work  fer  me  ter  do,  that's 
their  business.  I've  took  one  man's  job  away  from  him 
fer  cause.  But  I  ain't  got  no  spite  ag'in  him.  He's  on'y 
a  fool-furriner.  Thet's  you,  Schmitzer.  An'  ter  show 
you  that  I  aint'  got  no  spite  agin  yer,  I'm  a-goin'  ter 
make  you  an  offer.  I'll  take  yer  inter  partnership." 

There  was  a  derisory  laugh  at  this  from  the  whole 
delegation,  but  Zadoc  checked  it. 

"  Schmitzer,"  he  said,  "  you  come  inside  here  and  talk 
it  over  with  me.  I  ain't  goin'  to  hurt  ye,  an'  yer  friends 
here'll  go  down  street  ter  Bryan's  an'  take  a  drink. 
They've  been  a-talkin',  an'  I  guess  they're  thirsty." 


io8  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

After  a  moment  of  irresolute  hesitation  the  delegation 
moved  off.  The  men  were  puzzled.  The  exiling  of 
Zadoc  Pine  seemed  no  longer  a  simple  matter,  and  they 
felt  the  need  of  discussing  a  new  situation.  Zadoc  and 
Schmitzer  were  left  together  in  the  little  stone  house. 

"  Schmitzer,"  said  Zadoc,  "  I'm  makin'  most  as  much 
clean  profit  outer  my  ten  families  ez  you're  makin'  out 
of  yer  whole  business,  an'  I  don't  have  no  rent  t'  pay. 
Here's  my  riggers  —  look  'em  over.  Now,  Schmitzer, 
thar's  no  end  of  business  hereabouts  thet  you  ain't  worked 
up.  These  farmers  all  around  about  are  livin'  on  salt 
pork,  an'  eatin'  butchers'  meat  wunst  a  week.  We've 
gotter  get  their  trade  and  teach  'em  Christian  livin'. 
These  here  quarrymen  ain't  eatin'  meat  like  they  oughter. 
S'pose  we  show  'em  what  they  c'n  get  for  a  dollar?  " 

Schmitzer  looked  carefully  over  Zadoc's  figures.  He 
knew  the  risks  of  carrying  perishable  stock.  He  saw 
that  people  bought  more  when  the  opportunities  of  the 
great  markets  were  offered  to  them.  Before  he  left  the 
house  he  had  agreed  to  work  with  Zadoc,  and  to  follow 
his  leader  in  the  new  scheme  for  supplying  South  Ridge 
with  meat  and  vegetables. 

"An'  what'll  yer  friends  down  street  say?"  queried 
Zadoc. 

"  I  don'  care  vot  dey  say,"  responded  Schmitzer;  "  dose 
fellus  ain't  no  good.  I  got  better  bissness  now.  If  dey 
don'  like  it,  dey  go  down  to  Cendre  un'  bring  deir  meat 
home  demselfs." 

Zadoc  retains  his  share  in  the  Pine  &  Schmitzer  Supply 


THE  ZADOC  PINE  LABOR  UNION        109 

Company ;  but  after  he  had  drummed  up  the  local  trade  on 
the  new  basis,  and  broken  Schmitzer  into  the  routine 
work,  he  branched  off  for  himself  in  a  new  line. 

He  had  found  an  amateur  electrician  among  his  cus- 
tomers, and  with  this  gentleman's  aid  he  organized  the 
South  Ridge  Fire  Department  and  Protective  Association. 
Thirty-six  householders  paid  him  ten  dollars  for  the  plant 
and  ten  dollars  for  yearly  service ;  and  he  connected  their 
houses  in  an  electric  circuit,  of  which  his  own  bedroom 
was  the  central  station.  In  each  house  was  a  combined 
bell  and  alarm;  and  if  a  citizen  awoke  at  night  to  find 
his  chimney  on  fire  or  to  hear  a  stranger  within  his 
chickenhouse,  he  rang  a  wild  tocsin  in  thirty-five  other 
houses,  and  then  sounded  a  signal-letter  by  dot  and  dash 
to  proclaim  his  identity.  Then  the  whole  town  turned 
out,  and  Zadoc  drove  a  small  chemical  engine  behind 
Schmitzer's  horse.  If  the  cause  of  the  disturbance  was 
a  chicken-thief,  and  the  cause  was  caught,  Zadoc  played 
upon  him. 

"Can't  bring  out  that  engyne  fer  nothin',"  he  said; 
"  she's  gotter  serve  a  moral  purpose  somehow." 

Two  years  and  a  half  have  passed  since  Zadoc  left  the 
North  Woods.  He  is  an  employer  now,  and  an  owner 
of  real-estate,  in  a  small  way,  and  he  still  has  South  Ridge 
under  his  protecting  wing,  and  keeps  her  yards  clean  and 
her  lawns  trim  —  or  his  men  do.  Moreover,  he  is  the 
husband  of  the  girl  whose  smile  first  welcomed  him  to  the 
Ridge. 

"  Man  must  earn  his  bread  in  the  sweat  of  his  brow," 
he  has  said ;  "  but  some  men  sweat  inside  o'  their  heads 


I  io  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

an'  some  outside.  I'm  workin'  my  brain.  I  could  'a' 
done  more  with  it  ef  I'd  'a'  had  edication.  When  that 
there  boy  o'  mine  gets  a  few  years  on  top  o'  the  six  weeks 
he's  got  now,  I'll  give  him  all  he  wants,  an'  he  c'n  do  the 
swaller-tail  business  ef  he  wants  to.  That  goes  with  ed- 
ication." 

"  You  have  done  much  for  the  town  Mr.  Pine,"  the 
Dominie  once  said  to  him,  "  and  I  am  glad  to  say  that 
your  success  has  been  due  to  the  application  of  sound 
principles  —  those  principles  on  which  true  success  has 
ever  been  founded." 

"  Yaas,"  said  Zadoc,  meditatively,  "  an'  then —  I'm  ar 
Amerikan,  an'  I  guess  thet  goes  fer  suthin'." 

—  H.  C.  BUNNER 


V 

THE  THOUGHT  AND  THE  STONE 

Used  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  Little,  Brown  and  Com- 
pany. 

Copyright,  1910,  by  Mary  E.  Waller. 

At  a  quarter  past  seven  Father  Honore  made  his  ap- 
pearance on  the  platform.  The  men  settled  at  once  into 
silence,  and  the  priest  began  without  preface: 

"  My  friends,  we  will  take  up  to-night  what  we  may 
call  the  Brotherhood  of  Stone." 

The  men  looked  at  one  another  and  smiled.  Here  was 
something  new. 

"  That  is  the  right  thought  for  all  of  you  to  take  with 
you  into  the  quarries  and  the  sheds.  Don't  forget  it!" 

He  made  certain  distinct  pauses  after  a  few  sentences. 
This  was  done  with  intention;  for  the  men  before  him 
were  of  various  nationalities,  although  he  called  this  his 
"  English  night."  But  many  were  learning  and  under- 
stood imperfectly;  it  was  for  them  he  paused  frequently. 
He  wanted  to  give  them  time  to  take  in  what  he  was 
saying.  Sometimes  he  repeated  his  words  in  Italian,  in 
French,  that  the  foreigners  might  better  comprehend  his 
meaning. 

"  Perhaps  some  of  you  have  worked  in  the  limestone 
quarries  on  the  Bay?  All  who  have  hold  up  hands." 

A  hundred  hands,  perhaps  more,  were  raised, 
in 


112  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

"Any  worked  in  the  marble  quarries  of  Vermont?" 

A  dozen  or  more  Canucks  waved  their  hands  vigor- 
ously. 

"  Here  are  three  pieces  —  limestone,  marble,  and 
granite."  He  held  up  specimens  of  the  three.  "  All  of 
them  are  well  known  to  most  of  you.  Now  mark  what 
I  say  of  these  three :  —  first,  the  limestone  gets  burned 
principally ;  second,  the  marble  gets  sculptured  principally  ; 
third,  the  granite  gets  hammered  and  chiselled  princi- 
pally. Fire,  chisel,  and  hammer  at  work  on  these  three 
rocks;  but,  they  are  all  quarried  first.  This  fact  of  their 
being  quarried  puts  them  in  the  Brotherhood  —  of  La- 
bor." 

The  men  nudged  one  another,  and  nodded  emphati- 
cally. 

"  They  are  all  three  taken  from  the  crust  of  the  earth ; 
this  Earth  is  to  them  the  earth-mother.  Now  mark 
again  what  I  say:  —  this  fact  of  their  common  earth- 
mother  puts  them  in  the  Brotherhood  —  of  Kin." 

He  took  up  three  specimens  of  quartz  crystals. 

"  This  quartz  crystal  " —  he  turned  it  in  the  light, 
and  the  hexagonal  prisms  caught  and  reflected  dazzling 
rays — "  I  found  in  the  limestone  quarry  on  the  Bay. 
This,"  he  took  up  another  smaller  one,  "  I  found  after 
a  long  search  in  the  marble  quarries  of  Vermont.  This 
here,"  he  held  up  a  third,  a  smaller,  less  brilliant,  less 
perfect  one — "I  took  out  of  our  upper  quarry  after  a 
three  weeks'  search  for  it. 

"  This  fact,  that  these  rocks,  although  of  different 
market  value  and  put  to  different  uses,  may  yield  the 


THE  THOUGHT  AND  THE  STONE       113 

same  perfect  crystal,  puts  the  limestone,  the  marble,  the 
granite  in  the  Brotherhood  —  of  Equality. 

"  In  our  other  talks,  we  have  named  the  elements  of 
each  rock,  and  given  some  study  to  each.  We  have 
found  that  some  of  their  elements  are  the  basic  elements 
of  our  own  mortal  frames  —  our  bodies  have  a  common 
earth-mother  with  these  stones. 

"  This  last  fact  puts  them  in  the  Brotherhood  —  of 
Man." 

The  seven  hundred  men  showed  their  appreciation  of 
the  point  made  by  prolonged  applause. 

41  Now  I  want  to  make  clear  to  you  that,  although 
these  rocks  have  different  market  values,  are  put  to 
different  uses,  the  real  value  for  us  this  evening  con- 
sists in  the  fact  that  each,  in  its  own  place,  can  yield 
a  crystal  equal  in  purity  to  the  others. —  Remember  this 
the  next  time  you  go  to  work  in  the  quarries  and  the 
sheds." 

He  laid  aside  the  specimens. 

44  We  had  a  talk  last  month  about  the  guilds  of  four 
hundred  years  ago.  I  asked  you  then  to  look  upon  your- 
selves as  members  of  a  great  twentieth  century  working 
guild.  Have  you  done  it?  Has  every  man,  who  was 
present  then,  said  since,  when  hewing  a  foundation  stone, 
a  block  for  a  bridge  abutment,  a  cornerstone  for  a  cathed- 
ral or  a  railroad  station,  a  cap-stone  for  a  monument,  a 
milestone,  a  lintel  for  a  door,  a  hearthstone  or  a  step  for 
an  altar,  '  I  belong  to  the  great  guild  of  the  makers  of  this 
country ;  I  quarry  and  hew  the  rock  that  lays  the  enduring 
bed  for  the  iron  or  electric  horses  which  rush  from  sea  to 


114  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

sea  and  carry  the  burden  of  humanity '  ?  —  Think  of  it, 
men !  Yours  are  the  hands  that  make  this  great  track  of 
commerce  possible.  Yours  are  the  hands  that  curve  the 
stones,  afterwards  reared  into  noble  arches  beneath  which 
the  people  assemble  to  do  God  reverence.  Yours  are  the 
hands  that  square  the  deep  foundations  of  the  great  bridges 
which,  like  the  Brooklyn,  cross  high  in  mid-air  from  shore 
to  shore!  Have  you  said  this?  Have  you  done  it?  " 

"  Aye,  aye. —  Sure. —  We  done  it."  The  murmuring 
assent  was  polyglot. 

"  Very  well  —  see  that  you  keep  on  doing  it,  and  show 
that  you  do  it  by  the  good  work  you  furnish." 

He  motioned  to  the  manipulators  in  the  gallery  to 
make  ready  for  the  stereopticon  views.  The  blank  blind- 
ing round  played  erratically  on  the  curtain.  The  entire 
audience  sat  expectant. 

There  was  flashed  upon  the  screen  the  interior  of  a 
Canadian  "cabin."  The  family  were  at  supper;  the 
whole  interior,  simple  and  homely,  was  indicative  of 
warmth  and  cheerful  family  life. 

The  Canucks  in  the  audience  lost  their  heads.  The 
clapping  was  frantic.  Father  Honore  smiled.  He  tapped 
the  portrayed  wall  with  the  end  of  his  pointer. 

"  This  is  comfort  —  no  cold  can  penetrate  these  walls ; 
they  are  double  plastered.  Credit  limestone  with  that !  " 

The  audience  showed  its  appreciation  in  no  uncertain 
way. 

"The  crystal  —  can  any  one  see  that  —  find  that  in 
this  interior?  " 


THE  THOUGHT  AND  THE  STONE       115 

The  men  were  silent.  Father  Honore  was  pointing 
ro  the  mother  and  her  child;  the  father  was  holding 
out  his  arms  to  the  little  one  who,  with  loving  impatience, 
was  reaching  away  from  his  mother  over  the  table  to 
his  father.  They  comprehended  the  priest's  thought  in 
the  lesson  of  the  limestone :  —  the  love  and  trust  of  the 
human.  No  words  were  needed.  An  emotional  silence 
made  itself  felt. 

The  picture  shifted.  There  was  thrown  upon  the 
screen  the  marble  Cathedral  of  Milan.  A  murmur  of 
delight  ran  through  the  house. 

"  Here  we  have  the  limestone  in  the  form  of  marble. 
Its  beauty  is  the  price  of  unremitting  toil.  This,  too, 
belongs  in  the  brotherhoods  of  labor,  kin,  and  equality. 
—  Do  you  find  the  crystal  ?  " 

His  pointer  swept  the  hierarchy  of  statues  on  the  roof, 
upwards  to  the  cross  on  the  pinnacle,  where  it  rested. 

"  This  crystal  is  the  symbol  of  what  inspires  and  glori- 
fies humanity.  The  crystal  is  yours,  men,  if  with  believ- 
ing hearts  you  are  willing  to  say  '  Our  Father  '  in  the  face 
of  His  works." 

He  paused  a  moment.  It  was  an  understood  thing  in 
the  semi-monthly  talks,  that  the  men  were  free  to  ask 
questions  and  to  express  an  opinion,  even,  at  times,  to 
argue  a  point.  The  men's  eyes  were  fixed  with  keen  ap- 
preciation on  the  marble  beauty  before  them,  when  a  voice 
broke  the  silence. 

"  That  sounds  all  right  enough,  your  Reverence,  what 
you've  said  about  '  Our  Father '  and  the  brotherhoods, 


ii6  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

but  there's  many  a  man  says  it  that  won't  own  me  for 
a  brother.  There's  a  weak  joint  somewhere  —  and  no 
offense  meant." 

Some  of  the  men  applauded. 

Father  Honore  turned  from  the  screen  and  faced  the 
men;  his  eyes  flashed.  The  audience  loved  to  see  him 
in  this  mood,  for  they  knew  by  experience  that  he  was 
generally  able  to  meet  his  adversary,  and  no  odds  given 
or  taken. 

"That's  you,  is  it,  Szchenetzy?" 

"  Yes,  it's  me." 

"  Do  you  remember  in  last  month's  talk  that  I  showed 
you  the  Dolomites  —  the  curious  mountains  of  the  Tyrol  ? 
—  and  in  connection  with  those  the  Brenner  Passf^" 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  something  like  seven  hundred  years  ago  a  poor 
man,  a  poet  and  travelling  musician,  was  riding  over  that 
pass  and  down  into  that  very  region  of  the  Dolomites. 
He  made  his  living  by  stopping  at  the  stronghold-castles  of 
those  times  and  entertaining  the  powerful  of  the  earth  by 
singing  his  poems  set  to  music  of  his  own  making.  Some- 
times he  got  a  suit  of  cast-off  clothes  in  payment;  some- 
times only  bed  and  board  for  a  time.  But  he  kept  on 
singing  his  little  poems  and  making  more  of  them  as  he 
grew  rich  in  experience  of  men  and  things;  for  he  never 
grew  rich  in  gold  —  money  was  the  last  thing  they  ever 
gave  him.  So  he  continued  long  his  wandering  life,  sing- 
ing his  songs  in  courtyard  and  castle  hall  until  they  sang 
their  way  into  the  hearts  of  the  men  of  his  generation. 
And  while  he  wandered,  he  gained  a  wonderful  knowledge 


THE  THOUGHT  AND  THE  STONE       117 

of  life  and  its  ways  among  rich  and  poor,  high  and  low; 
and,  pondering  the  things  he  had  seen  and  the  many 
ways  of  this  world,  he  said  to  himself,  that  day  when  he 
was  riding  over  the  Brenner  Pass,  the  same  thing  that 
you  have  just  said  —  in  almost  the  same  words:  — 
'  Many  a  man  calls  God  "  Father  "  who  won't  acknowl- 
edge me  for  a  brother.' 

"I  don't  know  how  he  reconciled  facts  —  for  your 
fact  seems  plain  enough  —  nor  do  I  know  how  you  can 
reconcile  them;  but  what  I  do  know  is  this:  —  that  man, 
poor  in  this  world's  goods,  but  rich  in  experience  and 
in  a  natural  endowment  of  poetic  thought  and  musical 
ability,  kept  on  making  poems,  kept  on  singing  them, 
despite  that  fact  to  which  he  had  given  expression  as 
he  fared  over  the  Brenner;  despite  the  fact  that  a  suit 
of  cast-off  clothes  was  all  he  got  for  his  entertainment 
of  those  who  would  not  call  him  '  brother.'  Discouraged 
at  times  —  for  he  was  very  human  —  he  kept  on  giv- 
ing the  best  that  was  in  him,  doing  the  work  appointed 
for  him  in  this  world  —  and  doing  it  with  a  whole  heart 
Godwards  and  Christwards,  despite  his  poverty,  despite 
the  broken  promises  of  the  great  to  reward  him  pecu- 
niarily, despite  the  world,  despite  facts,  Szchenetzy!  He 
sang  when  he  was  young  of  earthly  love  and  in  middle 
age  of  heavenly  love,  and  his  songs  are  cherished,  for 
their  beauty  of  wisdom  and  love,  in  the  hearts  of  men  to 
this  day." 

He  smiled  genially  across  the  sea  of  faces  to  Szchenetzy. 

He  turned  again  to  the  screen. 

"  What  is  to  be  thrown  on  the  screen  now  —  in  rapid 


ii8  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

succession  for  our  hour  is  brief  —  I  call  our  Marble 
Quarry.  Just  think  of  it!  quarried  by  the  same  hard 
work  which  you  all  know,  by  which  you  earn  your  daily 
bread ;  sculptured  into  forms  of  exceeding  beauty  by  the 
same  hard  toil  of  other  hands.  And  behind  all  the  toil 
there  is  the  soul  of  art,  ever  seeking  expression  through 
the  human  instrument  of  the  practised  hand  that  Quarries, 
then  sculptures,  then  places,  and  builds!  1  shall  give  a 
word  or  two  of  explanation  in  regard  to  time  and  locality ; 
next  month  we  will  take  the  subjects  one  by  one." 

There  flashed  upon  the  screen  and  in  quick  suc- 
cession, although  the  men  protested  and  begged  for  an 
extension  of  exposures,  the  noble  Pisan  group  and  Niccola 
Pisano's  pulpit  in  the  baptistery  —  the  horses  from  the 
Parthenon  frieze  —  the  Zeus  group  from  the  great  altar 
at  Pergamos  —  Theseus  and  the  Centaur  —  the  Wrestlers 
—  the  Discus  Thrower  and,  last,  the  exquisite  little 
church  of  Saint  Mary  of  the  Thorn, —  the  Arno's  jewel, 
the  seafarers'  own, —  that  looks  out  over  the  Pisan  waters 
to  the  Mediterranean. 

It  was  a  magnificent  showing.  No  words  from  Father 
Honore  were  needed  to  bring  home  to  his  audience  the 
lesson  of  the  Marble  Quarry. 

"  I  call  the  next  series,  which  will  be  shown  without 
explanation  and  merely  named,  other  members  of  the 
Brotherhood  of  Stone.  We  study  them  separately  later 
on  in  the  summer." 

The  cathedrals  of  York,  Amiens,  Westminster,  Col- 
ogne, Mayence,  St.  Mark's  —  a  noble  array  of  man's 
handiwork,  were  thrown  upon  the  screen.  The  men 


THE  THOUGHT  AND  THE  STONE        119 

showed     their     appreciation     by     thunderous     applause. 

The  screen  was  again  a  blank;  then  it  filled  suddenly 
with  the  great  Upper  Quarry  in  The  Gore.  The  granite 
ledges  sloped  upward  to  meet  the  blue  of  the  sky.  The 
great  steel  derricks  and  their  crisscrossing  cables  cast 
curiously  foreshortened  shadows  on  the  gleaming  white 
expanse.  Here  and  there  a  group  of  men  showed  dark 
against  a  ledge.  In  the  center,  one  of  the  monster  der- 
ricks held  suspended  in  its  chains  a  forty-ton  block  of 
granite  just  lifted  from  its  eternal  bed.  Beside  it  a  work- 
man showed  like  a  pigmy. 

Some  one  proposed  a  three  times  three  for  the  home 
quarries.  The  men  rose  to  their  feet  and  the  cheers  were 
given  with  a  will.  The  ringing  echo  of  the  last  had  not 
died  away  when  the  quarry  vanished,  and  in  its  place  stood 
the  finished  cathedral  of  A. —  the  work  which  the  hands  of 
those  present  were  to  create.  It  was  a  reproduction  of 
the  architect's  water-color  sketch. 

The  men  still  remained  standing;  they  gave  no  out- 
ward expression  to  their  admiration ;  that,  indeed,  al- 
though evident  in  their  faces,  was  overshadowed  by 
something  like  awe.  Their  hands  were  to  be  the  in- 
struments by  which  this  great  creation  of  the  mind  of 
man  should  become  a  fact.  Without  those  hands  the 
architect's  idea  could  not  be  materialized;  without  the 
"  idea  "  their  daily  work  would  fail. 

The  truth  went  home  to  each  man  present  —  even 
to  that  unknown  one  beneath  the  gallery  who,  when  the 
men  had  risen  to  cheer,  shrank  farther  into  his  dark 
corner  and  drew  short  sharp  breaths.  The  Past  would 


120  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

not  down  at  his  bidding;  he  was  beginning  to  feel  his 
weakness  when  he  had  most  need  of  strength. 

He  did  not  hear  Father  Honore's  parting  words :  — 
"  Here  you  find  the  third  crystal  —  strength,  solidity, 
the  bedrock  of  endeavor.  Take  these  three  home  with 
you :  —  the  pure  crystal  of  human  love  and  trust,  the 
heart  believing  in  its  Maker,  the  strength  of  good  char- 
acter. There  you  have  the  three  that  make  for  equality 
in  this  world  —  and  nothing  else  does.  Good  night,  my 
friends." 

—  MARY  E.  WALLER. 


VI 

THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME 

For  a  year  Bob  worked  hard  at  all  sorts  of  jobs.  He 
saw  the  woods  work,  the  river  work,  the  mill  work. 
From  the  stump  to  the  barges  he  followed  the  timbers. 
Being  naturally  of  a  good  intelligence,  he  learned  very 
fast  how  things  were  done,  so  that  at  the  end  of  the  time 
mentioned  he  had  acquired  a  fair  working  knowledge  of 
how  affairs  were  accomplished  in  this  business  he  had 
adopted.  That  does  not  mean  he  had  become  a  capable 
lumberman.  One  of  the  strangest  fallacies  long  prev- 
alent in  the  public  mind  is  that  lumbering  is  always  a 
sure  road  to  wealth.  The  margin  of  profit  seems  very 
large.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  industry  is  so  swiftly 
conducted,  on  so  large  a  scale,  along  such  varied  lines ;  the 
expenditures  must  be  made  so  lavishly,  and  yet  carefully; 
the  consequences  of  a  niggardly  policy  are  so  quickly 
apparent  in  decreased  efficiency,  and  yet  the  possible  leaks 
are  so  many,  quickly  draining  the  most  abundant  re- 
sources, that  few  not  brought  up  through  a  long  ap- 
prenticeship avoid  a  loss.  A  great  deal  of  money  has 
been  and  is  made  in  timber.  A  great  deal  has  been  lost, 
simply  because,  while  the  possibilities  are  alluring,  the 
complexity  of  the  numerous  problems  is  unseen. 

At  first  Bob  saw  only  the  results.  You  went  into  the 
121 


ia*  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

woods  with  a  crew  of  men,  felled  trees,  cut  them  into 
lengths,  dragged  them  to  the  roads  already  prepared,  piled 
them  on  sleighs,  hauled  them  to  the  river,  and  stacked 
them  there.  In  the  spring  you  floated  the  logs  to  the  mill 
where  they  were  sawed  into  boards,  laden  into  sailing 
vessels  or  steam  barges,  and  taken  to  market.  There  was 
the  whole  process  in  a  nutshell.  Of  course,  there  would 
be  details  and  obstructions  to  cope  with.  But  between 
the  eighty  thousand  dollars  or  so  worth  of  trees  standing 
in  the  forest  and  the  quarter-million  dollars  or  so  they 
represented  at  the  market  seemed  space  enough  to  allow 
for  many  reverses. 

As  time  went  on,  however,  the  young  man  came  more 
justly  to  realize  the  minuteness  of  the  bits  comprising  this 
complicated  mosaic.  From  keeping  men  to  the  point  of 
returning,  in  work,  the  worth  of  their  wages;  from  so 
correlating  and  arranging  that  work  that  all  might  be 
busy  and  not  some  waiting  for  others;  up  through  the 
anxieties  of  weather  and  the  sullen  or  active  opposition  of 
natural  forces,  to  the  higher  levels  of  competition  and 
contracts,  his  awakened  attention  taught  him  that  legiti- 
mate profits  could  attend  only  on  vigilant  and  minute 
attention,  on  comprehensive  knowledge  of  detail,  on  ex- 
perience, and  on  natural  gift.  The  feeding  of  men 
abundantly  at  a  small  price  involved  questions  of  buying, 
transportation  and  forethought,  not  to  speak  of  concrete 
knowledge  of  how  much  such  things  should  ideally  be 
worth.  Tools  by  the  thousand  were  needed  at  certain 
places  and  at  certain  times.  They  must  be  cared  for  and 
accounted  for.  Horses,  and  their  feed,  equipment  and 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  123 

care,  made  another  not  inconsiderable  item  both  of  ex- 
pense and  attention.  And  so  with  a  thousand  and  one 
details  which  it  would  be  superfluous  to  enumerate  here. 
Each  cost  money,  and  some  one's  time.  Relaxed  atten- 
tion might  make  each  cost  a  few  pennies  more.  What 
do  a  few  pennies  amount  to?  Two  things:  a  lowering  * 
of  the  standard  of  efficiency,  and,  in  the  long  run,  many 
dollars.  If  incompetence,  or  inexperience  should  be  added 
to  relaxed  attention,  so  that  the  various  activities  do  not 
mortise  exactly  one  with  another,  and  the  legitimate  re- 
sults to  be  expected  from  the  pennies  do  not  arrive,  then 
the  sum  total  is  very  apt  to  be  failure.  Where  organized 
and  settled  industries,  however  complicated  in  detail,  are 
in  a  manner  played  by  score,  these  frontier  activities  are 
vast  improvisations  following  only  the  general  unchange- 
able laws  of  commerce. 

Therefore,  Bob  was  very  much  surprised  and  not  a 
little  dismayed  at  what  Mr.  Welton  had  to  say  to  him 
one  evening  early  in  the  spring. 

It  was  in  the  "  van  "  of  Camp  Thirty-nine.  Over  in 
the  corner  under  the  lamp  the  sealer  and  bookkeeper  was 
epitomizing  the  results  of  his  day.  Welton  and  Bob  sat 
close  to  the  round  stove  in  the  middle,  smoking  their 
pipes.  The  three  or  four  bunks  belonging  to  Bob,  the 
sealer,  and  the  camp  boss  were  dim  in  another  corner; 
the  shelves  of  goods  for  trade  with  the  men  occupied  a 
third.  A  rude  door  and  a  pair  of  tiny  windows  com- 
municated with  the  world  outside.  Flickers  of  light  from 
the  cracks  in  the  stove  played  over  the  massive  logs  of  the 
little  building,  over  the  rough  floor  and  the  weapons  and 


124  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

snowshoes  on  the  wall.  Both  Bob  and  Welton  were 
dressed  in  flannel  and  kersey,  with  the  heavy  German 
socks  and  lumberman's  rubbers  on  their  feet.  Their 
bright-checked  Mackinaw  jackets  lay  where  they  had  been 
flung  on  the  beds.  Costume  and  surroundings  both  were 
a  thousand  miles  from  civilization ;  yet  civilization  was 
knocking  at  the  door.  Welton  gave  expression  to  this 
thought. 

"  Two  seasons  more'll  finish  us,  Bob,"  said  he.  "  I've 
logged  the  Michigan  woods  for  thirty-five  years,  but  now 
I'm  about  done  here." 

"  Yes,  I  guess  they're  all  about  done,"  agreed  Bob. 

"  The  big  men  have  gone  West;  lots  of  the  old  lumber 
jacks  are  out  there  now.  It's  our  turn.  I  suppose  you 
know  we've  got  timber  in  California?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Bob,  with  a  wry  grin,  as  he  thought  of 
the  columns  of  "  descriptions"  he  had  copied;  "  I  know 
that." 

"  There's  about  half  a  billion  feet  of  it.  We'll  begin  to 
manufacture  when  we  get  through  here.  I'm  going  out 
next  month,  as  soon  as  the  snow  is  out  of  the  mountains, 
to  see  about  the  plant  and  the  general  lay-out.  I'm  going 
to  leave  you  in  charge  here." 

Bob  almost  dropped  his  pipe  as  his  jaws  fell  apart. 

"  Me!  "  he  cried. 

"  Yes,  you." 

"  But  I  can't;  I  don't  know  enough!  I'd  make  a  mess 
of  the  whole  business,"  Bob  expostulated. 

"  You've  been  around  here  for  a  year,"  said  Welton, 
"  and  things  are  running  all  right.  1  want  somebody  to 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  125 

see  that  things  move  along,  and  you're  the  one.  Are  you 
going  to  refuse?  " 

"  No ;  I  suppose  I  can't  refuse,"  said  Bob  miserably, 
and  fell  silent. 

To  Bob's  father  Welton  expressed  himself  in  some- 
what different  terms.  The  two  men  met  at  the  Audi 
torium  Annex,  where  they  promptly  adjourned  to  the 
Palm  Room  and  a  little  table. 

"  Now,  Jack,"  the  lumberman  replied  to  his  friend's 
expostulation,  "  I  know  just  as  well  as  you  do  that  the 
kid  isn't  capable  yet  of  handling  a  proposition  on  his 
own  hook.  It's  just  for  that  reason  that  I  put  him  in 
charge." 

"  And  Welton  isn't  an  Irish  name,  either,"  murmured 
Jack  Orde. 

"  What?  Oh,  I  see.  No;  and  that  isn't  an  Irish  bull, 
either.  I  put  him  in  charge  so  he'd  have  to  learn  some- 
thing. He's  a  good  kid,  and  he'll  take  himself  dead  ser- 
ious. He'll  be  deciding  everything  that  comes  up  all  for 
himself,  and  he'll  lie  awake  nights  doing  it.  And  all 
the  time  things  will  be  going  on  almost  like  he  wasn't 
there!  " 

Welton  paused  to  chuckle  in  his  hearty  manner. 

"  You  see,  I've  brought  that  crew  up  in  the  business. 
Mason  is  as  good  a  mill  man  as  they  make;  and  Tally's 
all  right  in  the  woods  and  on  the  river;  and  I  reckon  it 
would  be  difficult  to  take  a  nick  out  of  Collins  in  office 
work." 

"  In  other  words,  Bob  is  to  hold  the  ends  of  the  reins 
while  these  other  men  drive,"  said  his  father,  vastly 


126  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

amused.  "  That's  more  like  it.  I'd  hate  to  bury  a  green 
man  under  too  much  responsibility." 

"  No,"  denied  Welton,  "  it  isn't  that  exactly.  Some- 
body's got  to  boss  the  rest  of  'em.  And  Bob  certainly  is 
a  wonder  at  getting  the  men  to  like  him  and  to  work  for 
him.  That's  his  strong  point.  He  gets  on  with  them, 
and  he  isn't  afraid  to  tell  'em  when  he  thinks  they're 
1  sojering  '  on  him.  That  makes  me  think:  I  wonder 
what  kind  of  ornaments  these  waiters  are  supposed  to  be." 
He  rapped  sharply  on  the  little  table  with  his  pocket- 
knife. 

"  It's  up  to  him,"  he  went  on,  after  the  waiter  had 
departed.  "  If  he's  too  touchy  to  acknowledge  his  igno- 
rance on  different  points  that  come  up,  and  if  he's  too 
proud  to  ask  questions  when  he's  stumped,  why,  he's 
going  to  get  in  a  lot  of  trouble.  If  he's  willing  to  rely 
on  his  men  for  knowledge,  and  will  just  see  that  every- 
body keeps  busy  and  sees  that  they  bunch  their  hits,  why, 
he'll  get  on  well  enough." 

"  It  takes  a  pretty  wise  head  to  make  them  bunch  their 
hits,"  Orde  pointed  out,  "  and  a  heap  of  figuring." 

"  It'll  keep  him  mighty  busy,  even  at  best,"  acknowl- 
edged Welton,  "  and  he's  going  to  make  some  bad  breaks. 
I  know  that." 

"  Bad  breaks  cost  money,"  Orde  reminded  him. 

"  So  does  any  education.  Even  at  its  worst  this  can't 
cost  much  money.  He  can't  wreck  things  —  the  organ- 
ization is  too  good  —  he'll  just  make  'em  wobble  a  little. 
And  this  is  a  mighty  small  and  incidental  proposition, 
while  this  California  lay-out  is  a  big  project.  No,  by  my 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  127 

figuring  Bob  won't  actually  do  much,  but  he'll  lie  awake 
nights  to  do  a  lot  of  deciding,  and  — " 

"Oh,  I  know,"  broke  in  Orde  with  a  laugh;  "you 
haven't  changed  an  inch  in  twenty  years  —  and  '  it/s  not 
doing  but  deciding  that  makjgs  a  man,'  "  he  quoted. 

"  Well,  isn't  it?  "  demanded  Welton  insistently. 

"  Of  course,"  agreed  Orde  with  another  laugh.  "  I 
was  just  tickled  to  see  you  hadn't  changed  a  hair.  Now 
if  you'd  only  moralize  on  square  pegs  in  round  holes,  I'd 
hear  again  the  birds  singing  in  the  elms  by  the  dear  old 
churchyard." 

Welton  grinned,  a  trifle  shamefacedly.  Nevertheless 
he  went  on  with  the  development  of  his  philosophy. 

"  Well,"  he  asserted  stoutly,  "  that's  just  what  Bob 
was  when  I  got  there.  He  can't  handle  figures  any  bet- 
ter than  I  can,  and  Collins  had  been  putting  him  through 
a  course  of  sprouts."  He  paused  and  sipped  at  his  glass. 
"  Of  course,  if  I  wasn't  absolutely  certain  of  the  men 
under  him,  it  would  be  a  fool  proposition.  Bob  isn't  the 
kind  to  get  onto  treachery  or  double-dealing  very  quick. 
He  likes  people  too  well.  But  as  it  is,  he'll  get  a  lot  of 
training  cheap." 

Orde  ruminated  over  this  for  some  time,  sipping  slowly 
between  puffs  at  his  cigar. 

"  Why  wouldn't  it  be  better  to  take  him  out  to  Cali- 
fornia now?"  he  asked  at  length.  "You'll  be  building 
your  roads  and  flumes  and  railroad,  getting  your  mill  up, 
buying  your  machinery  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  That  ought 
to  be  good  experience  for  him  —  to  see  the  thing  right 
from  the  beginning." 


128  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

"  Bob  is  going  to  be  a  lumberman,  and  that  isn't  lumber- 
ing; it's  construction.  Once  it's  up,  it  will  never  have  to 
be  done  again.  The  California  timber  will  last  out  Bob's 
lifetime,  and  you  know  it.  He'd  better  learn  lumbering, 
which  he'll  do  for  the  next  fifty  years,  than  to  build  a 
mill,  which  he'll  never  have  to  do  again  —  unless  it  burns 
up,"  he  added  as  a  half-humorous  afterthought. 

"  Correct,"  Orde  agreed  promptly  to  this.  "  You're  a 
wonder.  When  I  found  a  university  with  my  ill-gotten 
gains,  I'll  give  you  a  job  as  professor  of  —  well,  of  Com- 
mon Sense,  by  jimminy!  " 

Bob  managed  to  lose  some  money  in  his  two  years  of 
apprenticeship.  That  is  to  say,  the  net  income  from  the 
small  operations  under  his  charge  was  somewhat  less  than 
it  would  have  been  under  Welton's  supervision.  Even  at 
that,  the  balance  sheet  showed  a  profit.  This  was  prob- 
ably due  more  to  the  perfection  of  the  organization  than 
to  any  great  ability  on  Bob's  part.  Nevertheless,  he  ex- 
ercised a  real  control  over  the  firm's  destinies,  and  in  one 
or  two  instances  of  sudden  crisis  threw  its  energies  defin- 
itely into  channels  of  his  own  choosing.  Especially  was 
this  true  in  dealing  with  the  riverman's  arch-enemy,  the 
mossback. 

The  mossback  follows  the  ax.  When  the  timber  is  cut, 
naturally  the  land  remains.  Either  the  company  must 
pay  taxes  on  it,  sell  it,  or  allow  it  to  revert  to  the  state. 
It  may  be  very  good  land,  but  it  is  encumbered  with  old 
slashing,  probably  much  of  it  needs  drainage,  a  stubborn 
second-growth  of  scrub  oak  or  red  willows  has  already 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  129 

usurped  the  soil,  and  above  all  it  is  isolated.  Far  from 
the  cities,  far  from  the  railroad,  far  even  from  the  cross- 
road's general  store,  it  is  further  cut  off  by  the  necessity  of 
traversing  atrocious  and  —  in  the  wet  season  —  bottom- 
less roads  to  even  the  nearest  neighbor.  Naturally,  then, 
in  seeking  purchasers  for  this  cut-over  land,  the  Company 
must  address  itself  to  a  certain  limited  class.  For,  if  a 
man  has  money,  he  will  buy  him  a  cleared  farm  in  a 
settled  country.  The  mossback  pays  in  pennies  and  gives 
a  mortgage.  Then  he  addresses  himself  to  clearing  the 
land.  It  follows  that  he  is  poverty-stricken,  lives  frugally 
and  is  very  tenacious  of  what  property  rights  he  may  be 
able  to  coax  or  wring  from  a  hard  wilderness.  He  dwells 
in  a  shack,  works  in  a  swamp,  and  sees  no  farther  than 
the  rail  fence  he  has  split  out  to  surround  his  farm. 

Thus,  while  he  possesses  many  of  the  sturdy  pioneer  vir- 
tues, he  becomes  by  necessity  the  direct  antithesis  to  the 
riverman.  The  purchase  of  a  bit  of  harness,  a  vehicle,  a 
necessary  tool  or  implement  is  a  matter  of  close  economy, 
long  figuring,  and  much  work.  Interest  on  the  mortgage 
must  be  paid.  And  what  can  a  backwoods  farm  produce 
worth  money?  And  where  can  it  find  a  market?  Very 
little ;  and  very  far.  A  man  must  "  play  close  to  his 
chest  "  in  order  to  accomplish  that  plain,  primary,  simple 
duty  of  making  both  ends  meet.  The  extreme  of  this 
virtue  means  a  defect,  of  course;  it  means  narrowness  of 
vision,  conservatism  that  comes  close  to  suspicion,  illiber- 
ality.  When  these  qualities  meet  the  sometimes  foolishly 
generous  and  lavish  ideas  of  men  trained  in  the  reckless 


130  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

life  of  the  river,  almost  inevitably  are  aroused  suspicion 
on  one  side,  contempt  on  the  other  and  antagonism  on 
both. 

This  is  true  even  in  casual  and  chance  intercourse. 
But  when,  as  often  happens,  the  mossback's  farm  extends 
to  the  very  river  bank  itself;  when  the  legal  rights  of 
property  clash  with  the  vaguer  but  no  less  certain  rights 
of  custom,  then  there  is  room  for  endless  bickering. 
When  the  river  boss  steps  between  his  men  and  the  back- 
woods farmer,  he  must,  on  the  merits  of  the  case  and  with 
due  regard  to  the  sort  of  man  he  has  to  deal  with,  decide 
at  once  whether  he  will  persuade,  argue,  coerce,  or  fight. 
It  may  come  to  be  a  definite  choice  between  present  delay 
or  a  future  lawsuit. 

This  kind  of  decision  Bob  was  most  frequently  called 
upon  to  make.  He  knew  little  about  law,  but  he  had  a 
very  good  feeling  for  the  human  side.  Whatever  mis- 
takes he  made,  the  series  of  squabbles  nourished  his  sense 
of  loyalty  to  the  Company.  His  woods  training  was 
gradually  bringing  him  to  the  lumberman's  point  of  view ; 
and  the  lumberman's  point  of  view  means,  primarily,  tim- 
ber and  loyalty. 

"  By  Jove,  what  a  fine  bunch  of  timber!  "  was  his  first 
thought  on  entering  a  particularly  imposing  grove. 

Where  another  man  would  catch  merely  a  general 
effect,  his  more  practised  eye  would  estimate  heights, 
diameters,  the  growth  of  the  limbs,  the  probable  straight- 
ness  of  the  grain.  His  eye  almost  unconsciously  sought 
the  possibilities  of  location  —  whether  a  road  could  be 
brought  in  easily,  whether  the  grades  could  run  right.  A 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME   .          131 

fine  tree  gave  him  the  complicated  pleasure  that  comes  to 
any  expert  on  analytical  contemplation  of  any  object.  It 
meant  timber,  good  or  bad,  as  well  as  beauty. 

Just  so  opposition  meant  antagonism.  Bob  was  nat- 
urally of  a  partisan  temperament.  He  played  the  game 
fairly,  but  he  played  it  hard.  Games  imply  rules,  and  any 
infraction  of  the  rules  is  unfair  and  to  be  punished.  Bob 
could  not  be  expected  to  reflect  that  while  rules  are  gen- 
erally imposed  by  a  third  party  on  both  contestants  alike, 
in  this  game  the  rules  with  which  he  was  acquainted  had 
been  made  by  his  side ;  that  perhaps  the  other  fellow  might 
have  another  set  of  rules.  All  he  saw  was  that  the  an- 
tagonists were  perpetrating  a  series  of  contemptible,  petty, 
mean  tricks  or  a  succession  of  dastardly  outrages.  His 
loyalty  and  anger  were  both  thoroughly  aroused,  and  he 
plunged  into  his  little  rights  with  entire  whole-hearted- 
ness.  As  his  side  of  the  question  meant  getting  out  the 
logs,  the  combination  went  far  toward  efficiency.  When 
the  drive  was  down  in  the  spring,  Bob  looked  back  on 
his  mossback  campaign  with  a  little  grieved  surprise  that 
men  could  think  it  worth  their  self-respect  to  try  to  take 
such  contemptible  advantage  of  quibbles  for  the  purpose 
of  defeating  what  was  certainly  customary  and  fair,  even 
if  it  might  not  be  technically  legal.  What  the  mossbacks 
thought  about  it  we  can  safely  leave  to  the  crossroad 
stores. 

In  other  respects  Bob  had  the  good  sense  to  depend  ab- 
solutely on  his  subordinates. 

"  How  long  do  you  think  it  ought  to  take  to  cut  the 
rest  of  Eight?  "  he  would  ask  Tally. 


I32  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

"  About  two  weeks." 

Bob  said  nothing  more,  but  next  day  he  ruminated 
long  in  the  snow-still  forest  at  Eight,  trying  to  apportion 
in  his  own  mind  the  twelve  days'  work.  If  it  did  not 
go  at  a  two  weeks'  gait,  he  speedily  wanted  to  know 
why. 

When  the  sleighs  failed  to  return  up  the  ice  road 
with  expected  regularity,  Bob  tramped  down  to  the 
"  banks "  to  see  what  the  trouble  was.  When  he  re- 
turned, he  remarked  casually  to  Jim  Tally: 

"  I  fired  Powell  off  the  job  as  foreman,  and  put  in 
Downy." 

"Why?"  asked  Tally.  "I  put  Powell  in  there  be- 
cause I  thought  he  was  an  almighty  good  worker." 

"  He  is,"  said  Bob;  "  too  good.  I  found  them  a  little 
short-handed  down  there,  and  getting  discouraged.  The 
sleighs  were  coming  in  on  them  faster  than  they  could 
unload.  The  men  couldn't  see  how  they  were  going  to 
catch  up,  so  they'd  slacked  down  a  little,  which  made  it 
worse.  Powell  had  his  jacket  off  and  was  working  like 
the  devil  with  a  canthook.  He  does  about  the  quickest 
and  hardest  yank  with  a  canthook  I  ever  saw,"  mused 
Bob. 

"Well?  "demanded  Tally. 

"  Oh,"  said  Bob,  "  I  told  him  if  that  was  the  kind  of  a 
job  he  wanted,  he  could  have  it.  And  I  told  Downy  to 
take  charge.  I  don't  pay  a  foreman's  wages  for  canthook 
work;  I  hire  him  to  keep  the  men  busy,  and  he  sure 
can't  do  it  if  he  occupies  his  time  and  attention  rolling 
logs." 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  133 

"  He  was  doing  his  best  to  straighten  things  out,"  said 
Tally. 

"  Well,  I'm  not  paying  him  for  his  best,"  replied  Bob, 
philosophically. 

But  if  it  had  been  a  question  of  how  most  quickly  to 
skid  the  logs  brought  in  by  the  sleighs,  Bob  would  never 
have  dreamed  of  questioning  Powell's  opinion,  although 
he  might  later  have  demanded  expert  corroboration  from 
Tally. 

The  outdoor  life,  too,  interested  him  and  kept  him  in 
training,  both  physically  and  spiritually.  He  realized  his 
mistakes,  but  they  were  now  mistakes  of  judgment  rather 
than  of  mechanical  accuracy,  and  he  did  not  worry  over 
them  once  they  were  behind  him. 

When  Welton  returned  from  California  toward  the 
close  of  the  season,  he  found  the  young  man  buoyant  and 
happy,  deeply  absorbed,  well  liked,  and  in  a  fair  way  to 
learn  something  about  the  business. 

Almost  immediately  after  his  return,  the  mill  was  closed 
down.  The  remaining  lumber  in  the  yards  was  shipped 
out  as  rapidly  as  possible.  By  the  end  of  September  the 
work  was  over. 

Bob  perforce  accepted  a  vacation  of  some  months  while 
affairs  were  in  preparation  for  the  westward  exodus. 

Then  he  answered  a  summons  to  meet  Mr.  Welton  at 
the  Chicago  offices. 

He  entered  the  little  outer  office  he  had  left  so  down- 
heartedly  three  years  before.  Harvey  and  his  two  as- 
sistants sat  on  the  high  stools  in  front  of  the  shelf-like 
desk.  The  same  pictures  of  record  loads,  large  trees,  mill 


134  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

crews  and  logging  camps  hung  on  the  walls.  The  same 
atmosphere  of  peace  and  immemorial  quiet  brooded  over 
the  place.  Through  the  half -open  door  Bob  could  see 
Mr.  Fox,  his  leg  swung  over  the  arm  of  his  revolving 
chair,  chatting  in  a  leisurely  fashion  with  some  visitor. 

No  one  had  heard  him  enter.  He  stood  for  a  moment 
staring  at  the  three  bent  backs  before  him.  He  remem- 
bered the  infinite  details  of  the  work  he  had  left,  the 
purchasings  of  innumerable  little  things,  the  regulation  of 
outlays,  the  balancings  of  expenditures,  the  constantly 
shifting  property  values,  the  cost  of  tools,  food,  imple- 
ments, wages,  machinery,  transportation,  operation.  And 
in  addition  he  brought  to  mind  the  minute  and  vexatious 
mortgage  and  sale  and  rental  business  having  to  do  with 
the  old  cut-over  lands;  the  legal  complications;  the  ques- 
tions of  arbitration  and  privilege.  And  beyond  that  his 
mind  glimpsed  dimly  the  extent  of  other  interests,  con- 
cerning which  he  knew  little  —  investment  interests,  and 
silent  interests  in  various  manufacturing  enterprises  where 
the  Company  had  occasionally  invested  a  surplus  by  way 
of  a  flyer.  In  this  quiet  place  all  these  things  were  cor- 
related, compared,  docketed,  and  filed  away.  In  the 
brains  of  the  four  men  before  him  all  these  infinite  details 
were  laid  out  in  order.  He  knew  that  Harvey  could  an- 
swer specific  questions  as  to  any  feature  of  any  one  of 
these  activities.  All  the  turmoil,  the  rush  and  roar  of  the 
river,  the  mills,  the  open  lakes,  the  great  wildernesses 
passed  through  this  silent,  dusty  room.  The  problems 
that  kept  a  dozen  men  busy  in  the  solving  came  here  also, 
together  with  a  hundred  others.  Bob  recalled  his  sight 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  135 

of  the  hurried,  wholesale  shipping  clerk  he  had  admired 
when,  discouraged  and  discredited,  he  had  left  the  office 
three  years  before.  He  had  thought  that  individual  busy, 
and  had  contrasted  his  activity  with  the  somnolence  of 
this  office.  Busy!  Why,  he,  Bob,  had  over  and  over 
again  been  ten  times  as  busy.  At  the  thought  he  chuckled 
aloud.  Harvey  and  his  assistants  turned  to  the  sound. 
"  Hullo,  Harvey;  hullo  Archie!  "  cried  the  young  man. 
"  I'm  certainly  glad  to  see  you.  You're  the  only  men  I 
ever  saw  who  could  be  really  bang-up  rushed  and  never 
show  it." 

—  STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE. 


VII 

THE  LAST  THRESHING  IN  THE  COULEE 

Extract  from  A  Son  of  the  Middle  Border  by  Hamlin  Garland, 
used  by  permission  of  the  Macmillan  Company,  publishers. 

Life  on  a  Wisconsin  farm,  even  for  the  women,  had  its 
compensations.  There  were  times  when  the  daily  routine 
of  lonely  and  monotonous  housework  gave  place  to  an 
agreeable  bustle,  and  human  intercourse  lightened  the 
toil.  In  the  midst  of  the  slow  progress  of  the  fall's  plow- 
ing, the  gathering  of  the  threshing^.cjr£W_y^as  a  most 
dramatk_eyent  to  my  mother,  as  to  us,  for  it  not  only 
brought  unwonted  clamor,  it  fetched  hejJirothers  William 
and  David  and  Frank,  who  owned  and  ran  a  threshing 
machine,  and  their  coming  gave  the  house  an  air  of 
festivity  which  offset  the  burden  of  extra  work  which  fell 
upon  us  all. 

In  those  days  the  grain,  after  being  brought  in  and 
stacked  around  the  barn,  was  allowed  to  remain  until 
October  or  November  when  all  the  other  work  was  fin- 
ished. 

Of  course  some  men  got  the  machine  earlier,  for  all 
could  not  thresh  at  the  same  time,  and  a  good  part  of 
every  man's  fall  activities  consisted  in  "  changing  works  " 
with  his  neighbors,  thus  laying  up  a  stock  of  unpaid 
labor  against  the  home  job.  Day  after  day,  therefore, 
father  or  the  hired  man  shouldered  a  fork  and  went  to 
136 


LAST  THRESHING  IN  THE  COULEE        137 

help  thresh,  and  all  through  the  autumn  months,  the 
ceaseless  ringing  hum  and  the  bow-ouw,  ouuf-woo,  boo-oo- 
oom  of  the  great  balance  wheels  on  the  separator  and  the 
deep  bass  purr  of  its  cylinder  could  be  heard  in  every 
valley  like  the  droning  song  of  some  sullen  and  gigantic 
autumnal  insect. 

I  recall  with  especial  clearness  the  events  of  that  last 
threshing  in  the  coulee. —  I  was  eight,  my  brother  was 
six.  For  days  we  had  looked  forward  to  the  coming  of 
"  the  threshers,"  listening  with  the  greatest  eagerness  to 
father's  report  of  the  crew.  At  last  he  said,  "  Well, 
Belle,  get  ready.  The  machine  will  be  here  to-morrow." 

All  day  we  hung  on  the  gate,  gazing  down  the  road, 
watching,  waiting  for  the  crew,  and  even  after  supper, 
we  stood  at  the  windows  still  hoping  to  hear  the  rattle 
of  the  ponderous  separator. 

Father  explained  that  the  men  usually  worked  all  day 
at  one  farm  and  moved  after  dark,  and  we  were  just 
starting  to  "  climb  the  wooden  hill "  when  we  heard  a 
far-off  faint  halloo. 

"  There  they  are,"  shouted  father,  catching  up  his  old 
square  tin  lantern  and  hurriedly  lighting  the  candle 
within  it.  "  That's  Frank's  voice." 

The  night  air  was  sharp,  and  as  we  had  taken  off  our 
boots  we  could  only  stand  at  the  window  and  watch 
father  as  he  piloted  the  teamsters  through  the  gate. 
The  light  threw  fantastic  shadows  here  and  there,  now 
lighting  up  a  face,  now  bringing  out  the  separator  which 
seemed  a  weary  and  sullen  monster  awaiting  its  den. 
The  jnen's  voices  sounded  loud  in  the  still  night,  caus- 


138  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

ing  the  roused  turkeys  in  the  oaks  to  peer  about  on  their 
perches,  uneasy  silhouettes  against  the  sky. 

We  would  gladly  have  stayed  awake  to  greet  our  be- 
loved uncles,  but  mother  said,  "  You  must  go  to  sleep 
in  order  to  be  up  early  in  the  morning,"  and  reluctantly 
we  turned  away. 

Lying  thus  in  our  cot  under  the  sloping  raftered  roof 
we  could  hear  the  squawk  of  the  hens  as  father  wrung 
their  innocent  necks,  and  the  crash  of  the  "  sweeps  "  be- 
ing unloaded  sounded  loud  and  clear  and  strange.  We 
longed  to  be  out  there,  but  at  last  the  dance  of  lights 
and  shadows  on  the  plastered  wall  died  away,  and  we 
fell  into  childish  dreamless  sleep. 

We  were  awakened  at  dawn  by  the  ringing  beat  of 
the  iron  mauls  as  Frank  and  David  drove  the  stakes  to 
hold  the  "  power  "  to  the  ground.  The  rattle  of  trace 
chains,  the  clash  of  iron  rods,  the  clang  of  steel  bars, 
intermixed  with  the  laughter  of  the  men,  came  sharply 
through  the  frosty  air,  and  the  smell  of  sizzling  sausage 
from  the  kitchen  warned  us  that  our  busy  mother  was 
hurrying  the  breakfast  forward.  Knowing  that  it  was 
time  to  get  up,  although  it  was  not  _yet_lifiht,  I  had  a 
sense  of  being  awakened  into  a  romantic  new  world,  a 
world  of  heroic  action. 

As  we  stumbled  down  the  stairs,  we  found  the  lamp- 
lit  kitchen  empty  of  the  men.  They  had  finished  their 
coffee  and  were  out  in  the  stack-yard  oiling  the  machine 
and  hitching  the  horses  to  the  power.  Shivering  yet 
entranced  by  the  beauty  of  the  frosty  dawn  we  crept  out 
to  stand  and  watch  the  play.  The  frost  lay  white  on 


LAST  THRESHING  IN  THE  COULEE        139 

every  surface,  the  frozen  ground  rang  like  iron  under 
the  steel-shod  feet  of  the  horses,  and  the  breath  of  the 
men  rose  up  in  little  white  puffs  of  steam. 

Uncle  David  on  the  feeder's  stand  was  impatiently 
awaiting  the  coming  of  the  fifth  team.  The  pitchers 
were  climbing  the  stacks  like  blackbirds,  and  the  straw- 
stackers  were  scuffling  about  the  stable  door.  Finally, 
just  as  the  east  began  to  bloom,  and  long  streamers  of 
red  began  to  unroll  along  the  vast  gray  dome  of  sky 
Uncle  Frank,  the  driver,  lifted  his  voice  in  a  "  Chippewa 
war-whoop." 

On  a  still  morning  like  this  his  signal  could  be  heard 
for  miles.  Long  drawn  and  musical,  it  sped  away  over 
the  fields,  announcing  to  all  the  world  that  the  McClin- 
tocks  were  ready  for  the  day's  race.  Answers  came  back 
faintly  from  the  frosty  fields  where  dim  figures  of  lag- 
gard hands  could  be  seen  hurrying  over  the  plowed 
ground,  the  last  team  came  clattering  in  and  was  hooked 
into  its  place,  David  called  "  All  right !  "  and  the  cylinder 
began  to  hum. 

In  those  days  the  machine  was  either  a  "  J.  I.  Case  " 
or  a  "  Buffalo  Pitts,"  and  was  moved  by  five  pairs  of 
horses  attached  to  a  "  power  "  staked  to  the  ground,  round 
which  they  traveled  pulling  at  the  ends  of  long  levers 
or  sweeps,  and  to  me  the  force  seemed  tremendous. 
"  Tumbling  rods  "  with  "  knuckle  joints  "  carried  the 
motion  to  the  cylinder,  and  the  driver  who  stood  upon 
a  square  platfrom  above  the  huge,  greasy  cog-wheels 
(roundL which  the  horses  moved)  was  a  grand  figure  in 
my  ej;es. 


140  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

Driving,  to  us,  looked  like  a  pleasant  job,  but  Uncle 
Frank  thought  it  very  tiresome,  and  I  can  now  see  that 
it  was.  To  stand  on  that  small  platform  all  through  the 
long  hours  of  a  cold  November  day,  when  the  cutting 
wind  roared  down  the  valley  sweeping  the  dust  and 
leaves  along  the  road,  was  work.  Even  I  perceived  that 
it  was  far  pleasanter  to  sit  on  the  south  side  of  the  stack 
and  watch  the  horses  go  round. 

It  was  necessary  that  the  "  driver  "  should  be  a  man 
of  judgment,  for  the  horses  had  to  be  kept  at  just  the 
right  speed,  and  to  do  this  he  must  gage  the  motion  of 
the  cylinder  by  the  pitch  of  its  deep  bass  song. 

The  three  men  in  command  of  the  machine,  were  set 
apart  as  "the  threshers." — William  and  David  alter- 
nately "  fed  "  or  "  tended,"  that  is,  one  of  them  "  fed  " 
the  grain  into  the  howling  cylinder  while  the  other,  oil- 
can in  hand,  watched  the  sieves,  felt  of  the  pinions  and 
so  kept  the  machine  in  good  order.  The  feeder's  position 
was  the  high  place  to  which  all  boys  aspired,  and  on  this 
day  I  stood  in  silent  admiration  of  Uncle  David's  easy 
powerful  attitudes  as  he  caught  each  bundle  in  the  crook 
of  his  arm  and  spread  it  out  into  a  broad,  smooth  band 
of  yellow  straw  on  which  the  whirling  teeth  caught  and 
tore  with  monstrous  fury.  He  was  the  ideal  man  in 
my  eyes,  grander  in  some  ways  than  my  father,  and  to 
be  able  to  stand  where  he  stood  was  the  highest  honor 
in  the  world. 

It  was  all  poetry  for  us  and  we  wished  every  day  were 
threshing  day.  The  wind  blew  cold,  the  clouds  went 
flying  across  the  bright  blue  sky,  and  the  straw  glistened 


LAST  THRESHING  IN  THE  COULEE        141 

in  the  sun.  With  jarring  snarl  the  circling  zone  of  cogs 
dipped  into  the  sturdy  greasy  wheels,  and  the  single- 
trees and  pulley-chains  chirped  clear  and  sweet  as 
crickets.  The  dust  flew,  the  whip  cracked,  and  the  men 
working  swiftly  to  get  the  sheaves  to  the  feeder  or  to 
take  the  straw  away  from  the  tail-end  of  the  machine, 
were  like  warriors,  urged  to  desperate  action  by  battle 
cries.  The  stackers  wallowing  to  their  waists  in  the 
fluffy  straw-pile  seemed  gnomes  acting  for  our  amuse- 
ment. 

The  straw-pile !  What  delight  we  had  in  that !  What 
joy  it  was  to  go  up  to  the  top  where  the  men  were  sta- 
tioned, one  behind  the  other,  and  to  have  them  toss 
huge  forkfuls  of  the  light  fragrant  stalks  upon  us,  laugh- 
ing to  see  us  emerge  from  our  golden  cover.  We  were 
especially  impressed  by  the  bravery  of  Ed  Green  who 
stood  in  the  midst  of  the  thick  dust  and  flying  chaff 
close  to  the  tail  of  the  stacker.  His  teeth  shone  like  a 
negro's  out  of  his  dust-blackened  face  and  his  shirt  was 
wet  with  sweat,  but  he  motioned  for  "  more  straw  "  and 
David,  accepting  the  challenge,  signaled  for  more  speed. 
Frank  swung  his  lash  and  yelled  at  the  straining  horses, 
the  sleepy  growl  of  the  cylinder  rose  to  a  howl  and  the 
wheat  came  pulsing  out  at  the  spout  in  such  a  stream 
that  the  carriers  were  forced  to  trot  on  their  path  to  and 
from  the  granary  in  order  to  keep  the  grain  from  piling 
up  around  the  measurer.--  There  was  a  kind  of  splendid 
rivalry  in  this  backbreaking  toil  —  for  each  sack  weighed 
ninety  pounds. 

We  got  tired  of  wallowing  in  the  straw  at  last,  and 


I42  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

went  down  to  help  Rover  catch  the  rats  which  were 
being  uncovered  by  the  pitchers  as  they  reached  the 
stack  bottom. —  The  horses,  with  their  straining,  out- 
stretched necks,  the  loud  and  cheery  shouts,  the  whistling 
of  the  driver,  the  roar  and  hum  of  the  great  wheel,  the 
flourishing  of  the  forks,  the  supple  movement  of  brawny 
arms,  the  shouts  of  the  men,  all  blended  with  the  wild 
sound  of  the  wind  in  the  creaking  branches  of  the  oaks, 
forming  a  glorious  poem  in  our  unforgetting  minds. 

At  last  the  call  for  dinner  sounded.  The  driver  began 
to  call,  "  Whoa  there,  boys!  Steady,  Tom,"  and  to  hold 
his  long  whip  before  the  eyes  of  the  more  spirited  of  the 
teams  in  order  to  convince  them  that  he  really  meant 
"  stop."  The  pitchers  stuck  their  forks  upright  in  the 
stack  and  leaped  to  the  ground.  Randal,  the  band-cutter, 
drew  from  his  wrist  the  looped  string  of  his  big  knife, 
the  stackers  slid  down  from  the  straw-pile,  and  a  race 
began  among  the  teamsters  to  see  whose  span  would  be 
first  unhitched  and  at  the  watering  trough.  What  joyous 
rivalry  it  seemed  to  us!  — 

Mother  and  Mrs.  Randal,  wife  of  our  neighbor,  who 
was  "  changing  works,"  stood  ready  to  serve  the  food  as 
soon  as  the  men  were  seated. —  The  table  had  been 
lengthened  to  its  utmost  and  pieced  out  with  boards, 
and  planks  had  been  laid  on  stout  wooden  chairs  at  either 
side. 

The  men  came  in  with  a  rush,  and  took  seats  wherever 
they  could  find  them,  and  their  attack  on  the  boiled  po- 
tatoes and  chicken  should  have  been  appalling  to  the 


LAST  THRESHING  IN  THE  COULEE        143 

women,  but  it  was  not.  They  enjoyed  seeing  them  eat. 
Ed  Green  was  prodigious.  One  cut  at  a  big  potato,  fol- 
lowed by  two  stabbing  motions,  and  it  was  gone. —  Two 
bites  laid  a  leg  of  chicken  as  bare  as  a  slate  pencil.  To 
us  standing  in  the  corner  waiting  our  turn,  it  seemed  that 
every  "  snitch  "  of  the  dinner  was  in  danger,  for  the 
others  were  not  far  behind  Ed  and  Dan. 

At  last  even  the  gauntest  of  them  filled  up  and  left 
the  room  and  we  were  free  to  sit  at  "  the  second  table  " 
and  eat,  while  the  men  rested  outside.  David  and  Wil- 
liam, however,  generally  had  a  belt  to  sew  or  a  bent 
tooth  to  take  out  of  the  "  concave."  This  seemed  of 
grave  dignity  to  us  and  we  respected  their  self-sacrificing 
labor. 

Nooning  was  brief.  As  soon  as  the  horses  had  finished 
their  oats,  the  roar  and  hum  of  the  machine  began  again 
and  continued  steadily  all  the  afternoon,  till  by  and  by 
the  sun  grew  big  and  red,  the  night  began  to  fall,  and 
the  wind  died  out. 

This  was  the  most  impressive  hour  of  a  marvelous 
day.  Through  the  falling  dusk,  the  machine  boomed 
steadily  with  a  new  sound,  a  solemn  roar,  rising  at  in- 
tervals to  a  rattling  impatient  yell  as  the  cylinder  ran 
momentarily  empty.  The  men  moved  now  in  silence, 
looming  dim  and  gigantic  in  the  half-light.  The  straw- 
pile  mountain  high,  the  pitchers  in  the  chaff,  the  feeder 
on  his  platform,  and  especially  the  driver  on  his  power, 
seemed  almost  super-human  to  my  childish  eyes.  Gray 
dust  covered  the  handsome  face  of  David,  changing  it 


144  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

into  something  both  sad  and  stern,  but  Frank's  cheery 
voice  rang  out  musically  as  he  called  to  the  weary  horses, 
"  Come  on,  Tom!  Hup  there,  Dan!  " 

The  track  in  which  they  walked  had  been  worn  into 
two  deep  circles  and  they  all  moved  mechanically  round 
and  round,  like  parts  of  a  machine,  dull-eyed  and  covered 
with  sweat. 

At  last  William  raised  the  welcome  cry,  "  All  done !  " — 
the  men  threw  down  their  forks.  Uncle  Frank  began  to 
call  in  a  gentle,  soothing  voice,  "  Whoa,  lads !  Steady, 
boys !  Whoa,  there !  " 

But  the  horses  had  been  going  so  long  and  so  steadily 
that  they  could  not  at  once  check  their  speed.  They 
kept  moving,  though  slowly,  on  and  on  till  their  owners 
slid  from  the  stacks  and  seizing  the  ends  of  the  sweeps, 
held  them.  Even  then,  after  the  power  was  still,  the 
cylinder  kept  its  hum,  till  David  throwing  a  last  sheaf 
into  its  open  maw,  choked  it  into  silence. 

Now  came  the  sound  of  dropping  chains,  the  clang 
of  iron  rods,  and  the  thud  of  hoofs  as  the  horses  walked 
with  laggard  gait  and  weary  down-falling  heads  to  the 
barn.  The  men,  more  subdued  than  at  dinner,  washed 
with  greater  care,  and  combed  the  chaff  from  their  beards. 
The  air  was  still  and  cool,  and  the  sky  a  deep  cloudless 
blue  starred  with  faint  fire. 

Supper  though  quiet  was  more  dramatic  than  dinner 
had  been.  The  table  lighted  with  kerosene  lamps,  the 
clean  white  linen,  the  fragrant  dishes,  the  women  flying 
about  with  steaming  platters,  all  seemed  very  cheery 
and  very  beautiful,  and  the  men  who  came  into  the 


LAST  THRESHING  IN  THE  COULEE        145 

light  and  warmth  of  the  kitchen  with  aching  muscles 
and  empty  stomachs,  seemed  gentler  and  finer  than  at 
noon.  They  were  nearly  all  from  neighboring  farms, 
and  my  mother  treated  even  the  few  hired  men  like 
visitors,  and  the  talk  was  all  hearty  and  good  tempered 
though  a  little  subdued. 

One  by  one  the  men  rose  and  slipped  away,  and  father 
withdrew  to  milk  the  cows  and  bed  down  the  horses, 
leaving  the  women  and  the  youngsters  to  eat  what  was 
left  and  "  do  up  the  dishes." 

After  we  had  eaten  our  fill  Frank  and  I  also  went  out 
to  the  barn  (all  wonderfully  changed  now  to  our  minds 
by  the  great  stack  of  straw),  there  to  listen  to  David  and 
father  chatting  as  they  rubbed  their  tired  horses. —  The 
lantern  threw  a  dim  red  light  on  the  harness  and  on  the 
rumps  of  the  cattle,  but  left  mysterious  shadows  in  the 
corners.  I  could  hear  the  mice  rustling  in  the  straw  of 
the  roof,  and  from  the  farther  end  of  the  dimly-lighted 
shed  came  the  regular  strim-stram  of  the  streams  of  milk 
falling  into  the  bottom  of  a  tin  pail  as  the  hired  hand 
milked  the  big  roan  cow. 

All  this  was  very  momentous  to  me  as  I  sat  on  the  oat 
box,  shivering  in  the  cold  air,  listening  with  all  my  ears, 
and  when  we  finally  went  toward  the  house,  the  stars 
were  big  and  sparkling.  The  frost  had  already  begun 
to  glisten  on  the  fences  and  well-curb,  and  high  in  the 
air,  dark  against  the  sky,  the  turkeys  were  roosting  un- 
easily, as  if  disturbed  by  premonitions  of  approaching 
Thanksgiving.  Rover  pattered  along  by  my  side  on  the 
crisp  grass  and  my  brother  clung  to  my  hand. 


I46  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

How  bright  and  warm  it  was  in  the  kitchen  with 
mother  putting  things  to  rights  while  father  and  my 
uncles  leaned  their  chairs  against  the  wall  and  talked 
of  the  west  and  of  moving.  "  I  can't  get  away  till  after 
New  Year's,"  father  said.  "  But  I'm  going.  I'll  never 
put  in  another  crop  on  these  hills." 

With  speechless  content  I  listened  to  Uncle  William's 
stories  of  bears  and  Indians,  and  other  episodes  of  fron- 
tier life,  until  at  last  we  were  ordered  to  bed  and  the 
glorious  day  was  done. 

Oh,  those  blessed  days,  those  entrancing  nights!  How 
fine  they  were  then,  and  how  mellow  they  are  now,  for 
the  slow-paced  years  have  dropped  nearly  fifty  other 
golden  mists  upon  that  far-off  valley.  From  this  distance 
I  cannot  understand  how  my  father  brought  himself  to 
leave  that  lovely  farm  and  those  good  and  noble  friends. 
—  HAM  LIN  GARLAND. 


VIII 
DR.  GRENFELL'S  PARISH 

When  Dr.  Grenfell  first  appeared  on  the  coast,  I  am 
told,  the  folk  thought  him  a  madman  of  some  benign  de_- 
scription.  He  knew  nothing  of  the  reefs,  the  tides,  the 
currents,  cared  nothing,  apparently,  for  the  winds ;  he 
sajled  with  the  confidence  and  reckless  courage  of  a 
Labrador  skipper.  Fearing  at  times  to  trust  his  schooner 
in  unknown  waters,  he  wejit  about  in  a  whale-boat,  and 
so  hard  did  he  drive  her  that  he  wore  her  out  in  a  single 
season.  She  was  capsized  with  all  hands,  once  driven  out 
to  sea,  many  times  nearly  swamped,  once  blown  on  the 
rocks;  never  before  was  a  boat  put  to  such  tasks  on  that 
coast,  and  at  the  end  of  it  she  was  wrecked  beyond  repair. 
Next  season  he  appeared  with  a  little  steam-launch,  the 
Princess  May  —  her  beam  was  eight  feet !  —  in  which  he 
not  only  journeyed  from  St.  Johns  to  Labrador,  to  the 
astonishment  of  the  whole  colony,  but  sailed  the  length  of 
that  bitter  coast,  passing  into  the  gulf  and  safely  out 
again,  and  pushing  to  the  very  farthest  settlements  in  the 
north.  Late  in  the  fall,  upon  the  return  journey  to  St. 
Johns  in  stormy  weather,  she  was  reported  lost,  and  many 
a  skipper,  I  suppose,  wondered  that  she  had  lived  so  long ; 
but  she  weathered  a  gale  that  bothered  the  mail-boat,  and 
triurnphantly  made  St.  Johns,  after  as  adventurous  a 


148  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

voyage,   no  doubt,  as  ever  a  boat  of  her  measure  sur- 
vived. 

"  Sure,"  said  a  skipper,  "  I  don't  know  how  she  done  it. 
The  Lord,"  he  added,  piously,  "  must  kape  an  eye  on 
*        that  man." 

There  is  a  new  proverb  on  the  coast.     The  folk  say, 
"  This'll  bring  Grenfell!" 


Often  it  does.  He  is  impatient  of  delay,  fretted  by  in- 
action ;  a  gale  is  the  wind  for  him  —  a  wind  to  take  him 
swiftly  towards  the  place  ahead.  Had  he  been  a  weak- 
ling, he  would  long  ago  have  died  on  the  coast;  had  he 
been  a  coward,  a  multitude  of  terrors  would  long  ago 
have  driven  him  to  a  life  ashore;  had  he  been  anything 
but  a  true  man  and  tender,  indeed,  he  would  long  ago  have 
retreated  under  the  suspicion  and  laughier  of  the  folk. 
But  he  has  outsailed  the  Labrador  skippers  —  outdared 
them  —  done  deeds  of  courage  under  their  very  eyes  that 
they  would  shiver  to  contemplate,  —  never  in  a  foolhardy 
spirit;  always  with  the  object  of  kindly  service.  So  he 
has  the  heart  and  willing  hand  of  every  honest  man  on  the 
Labrador  —  and  of  none  more  than  of  the  men  of  his 
crew,  who  take  the  chances  with  him;  they  are  wholly 
devoted. 

One  of  his  engineers,  for  example,  once  developed  the 
unhappy  habit  of  knocking  the  cook  down. 

"  You  must  keep  your  temper,"  said  the  doctor.  "  This 
won't  do,  you  know." 

But  there  came  an  unfortunate  day  when,  being  out  of 
temper,  the  engineer  again  knocked  the  cook  down. 


DR.  GRENFELL'S  PARISH  149 

"  This  is  positively  disgraceful !  "  said  the  doctor.  "  I 
can't  keep  a  quarrelsome  fellow  aboard  the  mission-ship. 
Remember  that,  if  you  will,  when  next  you  feel  tempted 
to  strike  the  cook." 

The  engineer  protested  that  he  would  never  again  lay 
hands  on  the  cook,  whatever  the  provocation.  But  again 
he  lost  his  temper,  and  down  went  the  poor  cook,  flat 
on  his  back. 

"  I'll  discharge  you,"  said  the  doctor,  angrily,  "  at  the 
end  of  the  cruise !  " 

The  engineer  pleaded  for  another  chance.  He  was 
denied.  From  day  to  day  he  renewed  his  plea,  but  to  no 
purpose,  and  at  last  the  crew  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
something  really  ought  to  be  done  for  the  engineer,  who 
was  visibly  fretting  himself  thin. 

"Very  well,"  said  the  doctor  to  the  engineer;  "I'll 
make  this  agreement  with  you.  If  ever  again  you  knock 
down  the  cook,  I'll  put  you  ashore  at  the  first  land  we 
come  to,  and  you  may  get  back  to  St.  Johns  as  best  you 
can." 

It  was  a  hard  alternative.  The  doctor  is  not  a  man  to 
v  give  or  take  when  the  bargain  has  been  struck ;  the  en- 
gineer knew  that  he  would  surely  go  ashore  somewhere  on 
that  desolate  coast,  whether  the  land  was  a  barren  island 
or  a  frequented  harbor,  if  ever  again  the  cook  tempted  him 
beyond  endurance. 

"I'll  stand  by  it,  sir,"  he  said,  nevertheless;  "for  I 
don't  want  to  leave  you." 

In_the  course  of  time  th*.  Princess  May  was  wrecked 


150  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

or  worn  out.  Then  came  the  Julia  Sheridan,  thirt^five, 
feet  long,  which  the  mission  doctor  bought  while  she  yet 
lay  under  water  from  her  last  wreck;  he  raised  her,  re- 
fitted her  with  what  money  he  had,  and  pursued  his  ven- 
turesome and  beneficent  career,  until  she,  too,  got  beyond 
so  hard  a  service.  Many  a  gale  she  weathered,  off  "  the 
worst  coast  in  the  world  " —  often,  indeed,  in  thick,  wild 
weather,  the  doctor  himself  thought  the  little  craft  would 
go  down;  but  she  is  now  happily  superannuated,  carrying 
the  mail  in  the  quieter  waters  of  Hamilton  Inlet.  Next 
came  the  Sir  Donald  —  a_stout  shjpj  which  in  turn  disap- 
peared, crushed  in  the  ice.  The  Strathcona,  with  a  hos- 
pital amidships,  is  now  doing  duty ;  and  she  will  continue 
to  go  up  and  down  the  coast,  in  and  out  of  the  inlets, 
until  she  in  her  turn  finds  the  ice  and  the  wind  and  the 
rocks  too  much  for  her. 

"  'Tis  bound  t'  come,  soon  or  late,"  said  a  cautious 
friend  of  the  mission.  "  He  drives  her  too  hard.  He'vt 
a  right  t'  do  what  he  likes  with  his  own  life,  I  s'pose, 
but  he've  a  call  t'  remember  that  the  crew  has  folks  t' 
home." 

But  the  missiojijdacJor  is  not  inconsiderate;  he  is  in  a 
hurry  —  the  coast  is  long,  the  season  short,  the  need  such 
as  to  wring  a  man's  heart.  Every  new  day  holds  an  op- 
portunity for  doing  a  good  deed  —  not  if  he  dawdles  in 
the  harbors  when  a  gale  is  abroad,  but  only  if  he  passes 
swiftly  from  place  to  place,  with  a  brave  heart  meeting 
the  dangers  as  they  come.  He  is  the  only  doctor_to_yjsit 
the  Labrador  shore  of  the  Gulf,  the  Strait  shore  of  New- 


DR.  GRENFELL'S  PARISH  151 

foundland,  the  populous  east  coast  of  the  northern  pen- 
insula of  Newfoundland,  the  on]y  _doctor  Joiown_to  tfie_ 
Esquimaux  and  poor  "  liveyeres  "  of  the  northern  coast  of 
Labrador,  the  only  doctor  most  of  the  "  liveyeres  "  and 
green-fish  catchers  of  the  middle  coast  can  reach,  save  the 
hospital  physician  at  Indian  Harbor.  He  has  a  round  OJL 
three  thousand  miles  to  make.  It  is  no  wonder  that  he 
"  drives  "  the  little  steamer  —  even  at  full  steam,  with  all 
sail  spread  (as  I  have  known  him  to  do),  when  the  fog 
is  thick  and  the  sea  is  spread  with  great  bergs. 

"  I'm  in  a  hurry,"  he  said,  with  an  impatient  sigh. 
"  The  season's  late.  We  must  get  along." 

We  fell  in  with  him  at  Red  Ray  in  the  Strait,  in  the 
thick  of  a  heavy  gale  from  the  northeast.  The  wind  had 
blown  for  two  days;  the  sea  was  running  high,  and  still 
fast  rising;  the  schooners  were  huddled  in  the  harbors, 
with  all  anchors  out,  many  of  them  hanging  on  for  dear 
life,  though  they  lay  in  shelter.  The  sturdy  little  coastal 
boat,  with  four  times  the  strength  of  the  Strathcona,  had 
made  hard  work  of  it  that  day  —  there  was  a  time  when 
she  but  held  her  own  off  a  lee  shore  in  the  teeth  of  the 
big  wind. 

It  was  drawing  on  towards  night  when  the  doctor 
came  aboard  for  a  surgeon  from  Boston,  a  specialist,  for 
whom  he  had  been  waiting. 

"  I  see  you've  steam  up,"  said  the  captain  of  the  coastal 
boat.  "  I  hope  you're  not  going  out  in  this,  doctor!  " 

"  I  have  some  patients  at  the  Battle  Harbor  Hospital, 
waiting  for  our  good  friend  from  Boston/'  said  the  doc- 


152  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

tor,  briskly.  "  I'm  in  a  hurry.  Oh,  yes,  I'm  going 
out!  " 

"  For  God's  sake,  don't!  "  said  the  captain  earnestly. 

The  doctor's  eye  chanced  to  fall  on  the  gentleman  from 
Boston,  who  was  bending  over  his  bag  —  a  fine,  fearless 
fellow,  whom  the  prospect  of  putting  out  in  that  chip  of 
a  steamer  would  not  have  perturbed,  though  the  doctor 
may  then  not  have  known  it.  At  any  rate,  as  though  be- 
thinking himself  of  something  half  forgotten,  he  changed 
his  mind  of  a  sudden. 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  he  said.  "  I'll  wait  until  the  gale 
blows  out." 

He  managed  to  wait  a  day  —  no  longer;  and  the  wind 
was  still  wild,  the  sea  higher  than  ever;  there  was  ice  in 
the  road,  and  the  fog  was  dense.  Then  out  he  went  into 
the  thick  of  it.  He  bumped  an  iceberg,  scraped  a  rock, 
fairly  smothered  the  steamer  with  broken  water;  and  at 
„  midnight  —  the  most  marvelous  feat  of  all  —  he  crept 
into  Battle  Harbor  through  a  narrow,  difficult  passage, 
and  dropped  anchor  off  the  mission  wharf. 

Doubtless  he  enjoyed  the  experience  while  it  lasted  — 
v  and  promptly  forgot  it,  as  being  commonplace.  I  have 
heard  of  him,  caught  in  the  night  in  a  winter's  gale  of 
wind  and  snow,  threading  a  tumultuous,  reef-strewn  sea, 
his  skipper  at  the  wheel,  himself  on  the  bowsprit,  guiding 
the  ship  by  the  flash  and  roar  of  breakers,  while  the  sea 
tumbled  over  him.  If  the  chance  passenger  who  told 
me  the  story  is  to  be  believed,  upon  that  trying  occasion 
the  doctor  had  the  "  time  of  his  life." 

"  All  that  man  wanted,"  I  told  the  doctor  subsequently, 


DR.  GRENFELL'S  PARISH  153 

"  was,  as  he  says,  '  to  bore  a  hole  in  the  bottom  of  the  ship 
and  crawl  out.'  " 

"  Why !  "  exclaimed  the  doctor,  with  a  laugh  of  sur-    / 
prise.     "  He  wasn't  frightened,  was  he?" 

Fear  of  the  «ea  is  quite  incomprehensible  *«  *hfr  ff**?- 
The  passenger  was  veryjtnuch  frightened ;  he  vowed  never 
to  sail  with  "  that  devil  "  again.  But  the  doctor  is  very 
far  from  being  a  dare-devil ;  though  he  is,  to  be  sure,  a  man 
altogether  unafraid;  it  seems  to  me  that  his  heart  can 
never  have  known  the  throb  of  fear.  Perhaps  that  is  in 
part  because  he  has  a  blessed  lack  of  imagination,  in  part, 
perhaps,  because  he  has  a  body  as  sound  as  ever  God  gave 
to  a  man,  and  has  used  it  as  a  man  should ;  but  it  is  chiefly 
because  of  his  simple  and  splendid  faith  that  he  is  an 
instrument  in  God's  hands  —  God's  to  do  with  as  He 
will,  as  he  would  say.  His  faith  is  exceptional,  I  am  sure 
—  childlike,  steady,  overmastering,  and  withal,  if  I  may 
so  characterize  it,  healthy.  It  takes  something  such  as 
the  faith  he  has  to  move  a  man  to  run  a  little  steamer  at 
full  speed  in  the  fog  when  there  is  ice  on  every  hand. 
It  is  hardly  credible,  but  quite  true,  and  short  of  the 
truth :  neither  wind  nor  ice  nor  fog,  nor  all  combined,  can 
keep  the  Strathcona  in  harbor  when  there  comes  a  call  for 
help  from  beyond.  The  doctor  clambers  cheerfully  out 
on  the  bowsprit  and  keeps  both  eyes  open.  "  As  the  Lord 
wills,"  says  he,  "  whether  for  wreck  or  service.  I  am 
about  His  business." 

It  is  sublime  expression  of  the  old  faith. 

Doctor  Grenjelj  jppearsjp  have  a  peculiar  affection  for 
the  outporters  of  what  is  locally  known  as  the  "  French 


154  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

Shore  " —  that  stretch  of  coast  lying  between  Cape  John 
and  the  northernmost  point  of  Newfoundland :  it  is  one 
section  of  the  shore  upon  which  the^ French  have  fishing 
rights.  This  is  the  real  Newfoundland ;  to  the  writer 
there  is  no  Newfoundland  apart  from  that  long  strip  of 
rock  against  which  the  sea  forever  breaks:  none  that  is 
not  of  punt,  of  wave,  of  fish,  of  low  sky  and  of  a  stalwart, 
briny  folk.  Indeed,  though  he  has  joyously  lived  weeks 
of  blue  weather  in  the  outports,  with  the  sea  all  a-ripple 
and  flashing  and  the  breeze  blowing  warm,  in  retrospect 
land  and  people  resolve  themselves  into  a  rocky  harbor  and 
a  sturdy  little  lad  with  a  question  —  the  harbor,  gray  and 
dripping  wet,  a  cluster  of  whitewashed  cottages  perched 
on  the  rocks,  towards  which  a  tiny,  red-sailed  punt  is  beat- 
ing from  the  frothy  open,  with  the  white  of  breakers  on 
either  hand,  while  a  raw  wind  lifts  the  fog  from  the  black 
inland  hills,  upon  which  ragged  patches  of  snow  lie  melt- 
ing; the  lad,  stout,  frank-eyed,  tow-headed,  browned  by 
the  wind,  bending  over  the  splitting-table  with  a  knife  in 
his  toil-worn  young  hand  and  the  blood  of  cod  dripping 
from  his  fingers,  and  looking  wistfully  up,  at  last,  to 
ask  a  question  or  two  concerning  certain  old,  disquieting 
mysteries. 

"  Where  do  the  tide  go,  ztir,  when  'e  runs  out  ?  "  he 
plainted.  "  Where  do  'e  go,  zur?  Sure,  zur,  you  is  able 
t'  tell  me  that,  isn't  you  ?  " 

So,  in  such  a  land  —  where,  on  some  bleak  stretches  of 
coast,  the  potatoes  are  grown  in  impor ted_jEnglisJi jml , 
where  most  gardens,  and  some  graveyards,  are  made  of 


DR.  GRENFELL'S  PARISH  155 

earth  scraped  from  the  hollows  of  the  hills,  where  four 
hundred  and  nineteen  bushels  of  lean  wheat  are  grown  in 
a  single  year,  and  the  production  of  beef-cattle  is  in- 
significant as  compared  with  the  production  of  babies  — 
in  such  a  land  there  is  nothing  for  the  young  man  to  do 
but  choose  his  rock,  build  his  little  cottage  and  his  flake 
and  his  stage,  marry  a  maid  of  the  harbor  when  the  spring 
winds  stir  his  blood,  gather  his  potato  patch,  get  a  pig  and 
a  goat,  and  go  fishing  in  his  punt.  And  they  do  fish,  have 
always  fished  since  many  generations  ago  the  island  was 
first  settled  by  adventurous  Devon  men,  and  must  con- 
tinue to  fish  to  the  end  of  time.  Out  of  a  total  male  pop- 
ulation of  one  hundred  thousand,  which  includes  the  city- 
folk  of  St.  Johns  and  an  amazing  proportion  of  babies  and 
tender  lads,  about  fifty^e^thousandjiynj^  &r?wp  *>nY* 
catch  fish  for  a  living. 

"  Still  an'  all,  they's  no  country  in  the  world  like  this !  "    / 
said  the  old  skipper.     "  Sure,  a  man's  set  up  in  life  when  » 
he  haves  a  j>ig^an'  a  j^unt  an'  a  potatoj?atch." 

"  But  have  you  ever  seen  another?  "  I  asked. 

"  I've  been  so  far  as  Saint  Johns,  zur,  an'  once  t'  the 
waterside  o'  Boston,"  was  the  surprising  reply,  "  an' 
I'm  thinkin'  I  knows  what  the  world's  like." 

So  it  is  with  most  Newfoundlanders:  they  Jove  their 
land  with  an  intolerant  prejudice;  and  most  are  content 
with  the  life  they  lead.  "  The  Newfoundlander  comes 
back,"  is  a  significant  proverb  of  the  outports;  and, 
"  White  Bay's  good  enough  for  me,"  said  a  fishwife  to 
me  once,  when  I  asked  her  why  she  still  remained  in  a 
place  so  bleak  and  barren,  "  for  I've  heered  tell  'tis  won- 


156  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

derful  smoky  an'  n'isy  't  Saint  Johns."  The  life  they 
live,  and  strangely  love,  is  exceeding  toilsome.  Toil  be- 
gan for  a  gray-haired,  bony-handed  old  woman  whom  1 
know  when  she  was  so  young  that  she  had  to  stand  on 
a  tub  to  reach  the  splitting-table;  when,  too,  to  keep  her 
awake  and  busy,  late  o'  nights,  her  father  would  make 
believe  to  throw  a  bloody  cod's  head  at  her.  It  J:>egan_for 
that  woman's  son  when,  at^  five  ^L  six  .years  old,  he  was 
just  able  to  spread  the  fishjto^lry  on  the  flake,  and  con- 
tinued in  earnest,  a  year  or  two  later,  when  first  he  was 
strong  enough  to  keep  the  head  of  his  father's  punt  up  to 
the  wind.  But  they  seem  not  to  know  that  fishing  is  a 
hard  or  dangerous  employment:  for  instance,  a  mild-eyed, 
crooked  old  fellow  —  he  was  a  cheerful  Methodist,  too, 
and  subject  to  "glory-fits" — who  had  fished  from  one 
harbor  for  sixty  years,  computed  for  me  that  he  had  put 
out  to  sea  in  his  punt  at  least  twenty  thousand  times,  that 
he  had  been  frozenjto^  the_  seat__of. J}js_j^iU_many  times, 
that  he  had  been  swept  to  sea  with  the  ice-packs,  six  limes, 
that  he  had  weathered  si*  hundredftgles,  great  and  small, 
and  that  he  had  been  wrecked  more  times  than  he  could 
"  just  mind  "  at  the  moment;  yet  he  was  the^nly^old  man 
ever  I  met  who  seemed  honestly  to  wish  that  he  might 
.livejiis  life  ov^ragain! 

The  hook-and^Tme  man  has  a  lonely  time  of  it.  From 
earliest  dawn,  while  the  night  yet  lies  thick  on  the  sea, 
until  in  storm  or  calm  or  favoring  breeze  he  makes  harbor 
in  the  dusk,  he  lies  off  shore,  fishing  —  tossing  in  the  lop 
of  the  grounds,  with  the  waves  to  balk  and  the  wind  to 
watch  warily,  while  he  tends  his  lines.  There  is  no  jolly 


DR.  GRENFELL'S  PARISH  157 

companionship  of  the  forecastle  and  turf  hut  for  him  — 
no  new  scene,  no  hilarious  adventure;  nor  has  he  the  ex- 
pectation of  a  proud  return  to  lighten  his  toil.  In  the 
little  punt  he  has  made  with  his  own  hands  he  is  for-  / 
ever  riding  an  infinite  expanse,  which,  in  "  fish  weather,"  t 
is  melancholy,  or  threatening,  or  deeply  solemn,  as  it  may 
chance  —  all  the  while  and  all  alone  confronting  the 
mystery  and  terrible  immensity  of  the  sea.  It  may  be 
that  he  gives  himself  over  to  aimless  musing,  or,  even  less 
happily,  to  pondering  certain  dark  mysteries  of  the  soul; 
and  so  it  comes  about  that  the  "  mad-house  't  Saint 
Johns  "  is  inadequate  to  accommodate  the  poor  fellows 
whom  lonelytoil  has  befeit"  ~ol  "their  senses  —  melan- 
choliacs,  idiots  and  maniacs  "  along  o'  religion." 

Notwithstanding  all,  optimism^  persists^ everywhere  on 
the  coast.     One  old  fisherman  counted  himself  favored     ( 
above  most  men  because  he  had  for  years  been  able  to    * 
ifford   the   luxury  of  cream   of   tartar;   and   another,   a     • 
>>_rawny  giant,  confessed  to  having  a  disposition  so  pej:-     ' 
tinaciously  happy  that  he  had  come  to  regard  a  merry 
heart  as  his  besetting  sin.     Sometimes  an  off-shore  gale 
puts  an  end  to  all  the  fishing;  sometimes  it  is  a  sudden 
gust,  sometimes  a  big  wave,  sometimes  a  confusing  mist, 
more  often  long  exposure  to  spray  and  shipped  water  and 
soggy  winds.     It  was  a  sleety  off-shore  gale,  coming  at  the 
end  of  a  sunny,  windless  day,  that  froze  or  drowned  thirty 
men  off  Trinity  Bay  in  a  single  night ;  and  it  was  a  mere 
puff  on  a  "civil"  evening  —  but  a  swift,  wicked  little 
puff,   sweeping  round   Breakheart   Head  —  that  made  a 
widow  of  Elizabeth  Rideout  o'  Duck  Cove  and  took  her 


158  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

young  son  away.     Often,  however,  the  hook-and-line  mat 
/    fishes  his  eighty  years  of  life,  and  dies  in  his  bed  as  cheei 
fully  as  he  has  lived  and  as  poor  as  he  was  born. 

—  NORMAN  DUNCAN. 

\l    3        ^ 


IX 

THE  MAKING  OF  A  BASKET 

One  afternoon  as  the  sun  was  sinking  over  the  distant 
mountain  top,  two  Indian  women,  one  old,  the  other  very 
young,  came  slowly  down  a  mountain  trail,  carrying  on 
their  backs  great  bundles  of  grasses.  They  had  been  gone 
since  early  morning,  searching  for  materials  for  tV*r 
basketry.  The  day  had  been  full  of  intense  pleasure  for 
the  young  girl,  for,  like  her  grandmother,  she  was  a  great 
lover  of  nature,  and  now  she  was  being  trained  by  the  old 
woman  to  take  up  the  art  of  her  ancestors,  which  was 
fast  threatening  to  become  extinct. 

Interesting,  Sally  found  it,  especially  the  searching  for 
materials,  but  it  was  none  the  less  fatiguing,  and  she  gave 
a  little  sigh  of  satisfaction  as  they  came  in  sight  of  the 
Indian  village,  which  was  camped  at  the  edge  of  a  wood. 

As  they  drew  near,  a  woman  came  out  of  a  lodge  and 
lifted  from  their  backs  the  heavy  burdens,  carried  them 
in  and  found  a  safe  place  for  them  within  the  lodge.  The 
grasses  were  very  j?recious.  In  only  onjLSgpt  were  they 
to  be  found,  and  that  a  most  jjgaccessihlfc_pQijaJt  almost  at 
the  top  of  a  mountain  peak.  Nevertheless,  not  a  year 
went  by  that  Nihabe  was  not  there,  just  at  the  right  sea- 
son, to  gather  the  harvest. 

Sally's  mother  busied  herself  about  the  supper,  while 
159 


160  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

the  two  told  her  the  adventures  of  the  day.  They  had 
taken  the  ridge-trail  very  early  in  the  morning,  and  had 
continued  quite  to  the  top,  climbing  over  large  rocks  and 
across  deep  ravines.  It  had  been  a  hard  trip  and  a  long 
one,  and  they  both  felt  glad  now  to  rest  on  the  soft  skins 
of  the  lodge  and  talk  over  the  day's  work. 

Soon  Sally  left  the  conversation  to  the  older  women,  for 
her  thoughts  had  roamed  to  the  collection  of  baskets  over 
in  one  corner  of  the  lodge.  These  were  the  most  prized 
possessions  of  Nihabe,  for  they  told  the  story  of  past  events 
in  family  history,  and  of  thoughts  and  fancies  of  her  youth 
and  womanhood.  Sally  had  always  been  fond  of  these 
baskets;  she  not  only  took  a  family  pride  in  them,  but  she 
enjoyed  making  up  stories  about  them,  and  occasionally 
getting  from  Nihabe  herself  the  real  stories.  Each  one 
had  a  special  significance,  and,  partly  for  their  beauty, 
but  more  for  their  association,  Sally  had  selected  her  fav- 
orites. She  was  especially  fond  of  the  little  ceremonial 
basket,  which  was  wrought  with  such  exceedingly  fine 
stitches  and  made  of  this  very  sort  of  grass  which  they  had 
to-day  been  gathering.  The  feathers,  too,  with  their  gay 
colors,  which  decorated  the  edge,  had  a  history.  Many 
times  had  Sally  been  told  the  story  of  the  pair  of  beau- 
tiful little  birds  who  made  their  home  each  year  in  the 
wood  near  the  Indian  village  —  how  one  had  one  day 
been  killed  by  a  hawk,  and  the  other  drooped  and  died  in 
its  grief.  Nihabe  had  loved  the  little  birds  and  wove  the 
feathers  into  this  basket  as  a  sort  of  memorial. 

Then  there  was  the  buffalo  basket,  which  Nihabe  had 
made  when  she  was  not  much  older  than  Sally  herself 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  BASKET  161 

It  was  in  the  days  of  the  buffalo,  and  Nihabe  had  felt 
very  proud  to  be  selected  by  the  older  women  to  go  with 
them  to  the  hunt  to  assist  the  men  in  the  preparation  of 
the  meat  and  skins.  It  was  a  long  journey  into  the 
home  of  other  tribes  and  was  full  of  danger  and  great 
adventure.  Oftentimes  when  in  a  hostile  land  they  had 
lain  down  at  night  in  the  brush  with  no  lodge  covering, 
and  as  she  lay  and  gazed  at  the  stars  she  planned  ajwsket 
decoration  which  was  a  chronicle  of  this  great  event  in 
her  life.  There  were  zig-zags  and  curves  to  represent 
the  mountains,  valleys  and  streams,  and  other  figures  for 
the  buffalo,  arrows,  hunters  and  hostile  tribes,  and  at  the 
top,  as  a  border,  the  moon  and  stars  which  had  helped  her 
to  work  out  the  design. 

Another  favorite  was  one  which  had  the  rattleanabe 
design.  Sally  had  watched  that  one  in  the  making. 
Nihabe  had  confided  to  no  one  the  meaning  of  the  design, 
but  it  was  at  a  time  when  one  of  her  sons  was  hunting  in 
a  rattlesnake-infested  land.  All  the  members  of  the  fam- 
ily realized  that  this  basket  was  a  prayer  to  the  Great 
Spirit  to  bring  her  son  home  in  safety.  He  returned  be- 
fore the  basket  was  completed,  and  the  spirit  of  joyfulness 
with  which  the  border  was  put  in  was  a  thanksgiving  in 
itself. 

Sally  remembered  the  day  that  the  basket-collector  vis- 
ited the  village.  Many  of  the  younger  women  sold  some  of 
their  baskets,  and  arranged  to  make  more  for  sale.  Great 
was  the  indignation  in  Nihabe's  lodge.  She  had  little  to 
say,  but  her  actions  plainly  showed  her  feelings.  She 
came  from  a  family  of  basket-makers,  and  she  herself 


162  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

was  the  head  weaver  of  her  tribe,  and,  like  her  ancestors, 
/  she  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  selling  a  papoose  as  a 
basket.  They  were  a  part  of  her  life,  of  herself;  they 
expressed  her  poetic  fancies,  her  hopes  and  prayers,  all 
her  brooding  thoughts,  as  well  as  being  picture-stories  of 
events  in  her  life.  What  the  collector  would  have  given 
to  know  the  story  of  that  jewel  basket  in  yonder  corner! 
The  first  of  Nihabe's  beautiful  baskets !  She  was  no  older 
than  Sally  when  it  was  completed,  and,  as  in  some  tribes, 
so  in  hers,  the  completion  of  a  girl's  first  beautiful  basket 
was  a  great  event  in  the  village.  Among  others  who  saw 
it  was  Black  Eagle,  a  young  brave,  a  member  of  an  allied 
tribe  who  was  a  visitor  in  the  village.  His  family  was 
also  a  great  basket-making  people,  and  he  appreciated  the 
worth  of  this  beautiful  work  of  art.  He  determined  to 
win  this  maiden  for  his  wife.  Later,  among  the  gifts 
which  he  brought  when  he  came  to  seek  her  hand  in  mar- 
riage, was  a  beautiful  necklace  which  he  himself  had 
carved  of  pieces  of  bone,  to  be  one  of  the  jewels  for  the 
basket. 

But  the  collector  did  not  hear  the  story,  nor  any  other, 
from  Nihabe,  for  she  could  not  appreciate  his  attitude  in 
the  matter. 

"  Why  comes  the  white  man  here?  "  she  had  exclaimed. 
"  Only  to  laugh  at  the  Indian  woman.  They  know  not 
our  ways.  They  have  taken  our  lands,  now  they  want 
our  other  treasures.  Let  other  squaws  make  and  sell.  I 
want  not  the  gold." 

The  other  squaws  did  make  and  sell.  Soon  they  found 
that  from  the  agency  they  could  get  the  dyes  and  so  save 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  BASKET  163 

themselves  hours  of  labor.  The  collectors  looked  with 
admiring  eyes  (when  they  had  the  opportunity)  at  the 
beautiful  dyes  of  Nihabe's  baskets,  for  never  would  she 
stoop  to  accept  the  cheap  dyes.  It  was  her  pride  that  no 
white  man  had  ever  had  a  share  in  the  making  of  her 
baskets,  or  of  those  of  any  member  of  her  family.  She 
herself  had  gathered  and  prepared,  often  with  great  labor, 
the  roots,  twigs  and  bark,  until  she  had  suitable  materials 
to  weave  the  beautiful  creations.  With  certain  leaves 
and  roots  she  concocted  the  enduring  dyes  that  far  sur- 
passed anything  the  trader  could  offer. 

Sally,  roused  from  her  revery,  ate  her  evening  meal  as 
any  healthy  girl  would  who  had  spent  the  day  in  the  open 
air.  Leaving  the  Indian  women  thus  occupied,  let  us 
take  a  look  about  their  lodge. 

It  had  not  the  dirty,  smoky  appearance  that  so  many 
Indian  lodges  have.  Articles  not  in  use  were  rolled  into 
bundles  or  baskets  and  set  into  corners.  The  earth-floor 
was  covered  with  gaily  colored  rugs;  soft  skins  and 
blankets  invited  one  to  rest  as  though  they  covered  the 
softest  of  couches.  Everywhere  were  baskets,  some  crude, 
others  fine,  some  large,  some  small,  and  all  were  put  to 
some  use.  In  one  corner  was  an  immense  one,  large 
enough  to  hold  a  person.  In  this  was  kept  the  basketry 
material  as  it  was  prepared  for  use,  wrapped  in  dampened 
blankets  at  first,  to  be  kept  flexible  until  it  could  be  made 
into  suitable  material  for  weaving,  then  rolled  into. coils, 
tied  up  with  strips  of  bark  or  bright-colored  strings,  and 
stowed  away  until  the  weaving.  The  little  papooses  en- 
joyed tumbling  in  and  out  of  this  big  basket  when  it  was 


164  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

empty.  They  called  it  the  Black  Robes'  basket,  for  its 
design  told  one  of  the  stories  which  the  Black  Robes  had 
told  the  Indians  about  the  Son  of  the  Great  Chief  who 
came  down  to  earth  to  show  all  men  the  way  to  the  Happy 
Hunting  Grounds.  The  twelve  figures  on  the  basket 
represented  the  twelve  men  chosen  by  the  Chief's  Son  to 
tell  the  story  after  He  had  gone  back  to  the  Great  Chief. 
One  of  the  figures  was  placed  on  a  line  below  the  others, 
for  he  was  found  to  be  a  bad  man,  not  what  the  Chief's 
Son  had  meant  him  to  be.  One  was  set  a  little  apart 
from  the  others,  for  he  was  different  from  them;  in  one 
way  he  was  the  best  loved  of  the  Twelve. 

To  have  seen  Nihabe  sitting  there  eating,  no  one  would 
have  thought  she  was  the  maker  of  all  this  beautiful  handi- 
work; no  one  would  have  attributed  to  her  the  beautiful 
thoughts  and  sentiments  which  were  the  underlying  charm 
of  her  baskets.  The  collector  no  doubt  found  her  a 
very  unattractive  and  ignorant-looking  old  woman,  and 
not  at  all  communicative.  Her  face  was  shriveled  and 
shrunken  from  age  and  long  exposure  to  weather  and 
hardships,  her  body  was  bent  from  hard  work  and  heavy 
burdens,  and  she  had  long  been  schooled  to  hide  her  emo- 
tions and  keep  to  herself  her  inmost  thoughts.  No  white 
person  could  ever  hope  to  break  the  wall  of  her  confi- 
dence, but  in  the  privacy  of  the  lodge  she  often  told 
stories  of  her  past  life,  and  Sally  was  especially  favored, 
because  of  her  devotion  to  her  grandmother,  and  her  in- 
terest in  the  old  woman's  life  and  work.  But  there  were 
some  things  she  never  revealed ;  these,  Sally,  with  unusual 
discernment,  seemed  to  divine,  and  often  while  Nihabe 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  BASKET  165 

brooded,  the  young  girl  was  dreaming  of  things  untold. 

Sally  had  had  her  share  in  the  making  of  the  family 
baskets,  but  so  far  she  had  attempted  only  the  cruder  ones 
or  those  with  no  special  design  —  mere  household  uten- 
sils. But  now  her  grandmother  was  planning  with  her 
the  making  of  a  basket  which  was  to  prove  her  fitness  to 
take  up  the  family  industry. 

The  fact  that  this  basket  was  to  be  a  work  of  art  was 
not  the  only  inspiration  which  was  moving  Sally.  Nihabe 
had  offered  as  a  prize,  to  the  first  one  of  her  grand- 
daughters who  would  make  a  basket  fine  enough  to  hold 
it,  the  beautiful  necklace  which  Black  Eagle  gave  to  her 
when  he  came  to  claim  her  for  his  bride. 

Nihabe  intended  that  her  granddaughters  should  keep 
up  the  family  reputation  and  do  every  part  of  the  work 
themselves.  She  was  now  taking  Sally  with  her  on  long 
expeditions  after  materials,  in  order  to  teach  her  the 
different  plants  used  for  the  work.  Every  morning  found 
the  two  wending  their  way  through  the  sweet  woods,  com- 
ing home  with  dew-bedraggled  skirts,  laden  with  heavy 
bundles  of  bark,  twigs  and  roots.  Occasionally  Sally's 
older  brother  was  pressed  into  the  service,  when  roots 
were  to  be  dug  from  the  bed  of  a  stream,  but  all  the  other 
work  was  done  by  the  two  themselves,  one  day  searching 
in  the  woods,  another  in  the  swamps  and  another  on  the 
hillsides.  Thus  the  spring  and  summer  passed,  each 
season  calling  for  a  different  part  of  the  work. 

On  stormy  days  was  discussed  the  subject  of  a  suitable 
design  for  the  maiden  effort.  As  each  design  was  planned 
it  was  sketched  on  to  the  skin  walls  of  the  lodge,  but 


166  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

none  seemed  to  meet  the  girl's  fancy.  One  day  as  they 
were  in  the  woods,  an  idea  came  to  her.  She  had  been 
musing  on  the  beauty  of  the  spring  flowers  and  wishing 
she  could  weave  them  into  a  design,  for  nothing  did  she 
love  as  she  did  the  flowers.  Then  in  her  imagination 
she  saw  it  all  pictured:  first  the  brown  earth,  then  here 
and  there  patches  of  green,  and,  to  represent  the  different 
flowers,  were  rows  of  yellow,  light  purple  and  white, 
and,  as  a  climax,  to  top  it  off  was  a  row  of  flaming  scarlet. 
Nihabe  was  well  pleased  with  the  idea.  She  showed  how 
it  could  be  set  off  by  rows  of  the  natural  color  so  as  to 
make  all  blend. 

Sally  was  eager  to  begin  the  basket  at  once  now  that 
she  had  the  design.  The  work  grew  from  week  to  week, 
the  mother  and  grandmother  offering  suggestions  as  it 
progressed.  With  characteristic  Indian  reticence  she 
would  let  no  one  see  her  finish  the  last  few  rows,  and 
when  she  emerged  from  her  retirement  with  the  beautiful 
work  of  art,  Nihabe  was  the  first  to  meet  her  and  gaze 
in  admiration.  While  the  others  were  examining  and 
admiring  it,  the  old  woman  was  groping  among  her 
treasures.  She  soon  appeared  with  the  carved  necklace. 
Before  the  eyes  of  the  adoring  family  she  placed  the  jewel 
in  the  basket. 

—  KATE  T.  FOGARTY. 

J  1> 


X 

FROM  THE  DEPTHS  OF  THINGS 

We  were  all  proud  of  MacAllister  the  day  he  came 
out  from  the  Board  room  after  three  days  of  examination, 
with  a  broad  grin  of  triumph  on  his  face  and  his  hard- 
won  certificate  as  chief  engineer  in  his  hand.  Only  ten 
years  before  he  had  been  a  vagrant  in  Brooklyn's  great 
marine  hospital,  the  Erie  Basin,  where  the  sick  ships 
come  in  from  the  Seven  Seas  to  be  made  strong  and  well 
again.  Thence  it  had  been  a  steady  climb  for  the  am- 
bitious youngster;  first  the  Gourock,  a  rusty  British 
tramp,  with  a  set  of  Scotchmen  aboard  who  never  let  pass 
opportunity  for  a  kick  or  a  cuff  directed  at  the  little 
Yankee  "  monkey,"  as  greasers  are  called ;  then  five  years' 
shop-apprenticeship  in  Liverpool  for  his  engineer's  certifi- 
cate; and  then  the  joy  of  his  first  berth  when  he  went  to 
the  Climax  in  the  place  of  McGill,  the  third  engineer, 
who  had  missed  his  footing  on  the  companion-ladder  in 
the  rush  for  the  engine-room  when  the  main  feed-valve 
broke. 

Now  he  was  fresh  from  twelve  months'  sea-service  on 
the  Castle  Hill,  and  his  owners,  Bolton  and  Perkins, 
had  promised  him  the  command  of  the  Climax's  en- 
gine-room when  he  should  have  passed  the  Board. 

"  She's  not  such  a  great  thing,"  said  the  head  of  the 
firm;  "  but  ye'll  be  glad  of  her  to  begin  on." 
167 


168  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

Glad  indeed  was  MacAllister,  and  proud,  hurrying  to 
the  dingy  offices  on  Water  Street,  though  Bolton  had 
spoken  something  less  than  the  truth.  For  even  in  the 
days  when  MacAllister  was  a  greaser,  the  Climax  was 
nothing  to  brag  about,  but  by  the  time  she  was  offered 
to  him,  a  rustier  old  hooker,  or  more  sluggish,  or  with 
more  rickety  engines,  never  wheezed  down  the  Mersey. 
Yet  it  was  the  best  Bolton  and  Perkins  could  offer  at  that 
time.  As  the  young  chief  entered  the  office  waving  his 
certificate,  several  portly,  placid,  and  bald  old  clerks 
looked  up  and  smiled  mildly.  "  There's  wark  for  ye, 
Mac,"  whispered  one  of  them,  nodding  toward  the  private 
office.  "  They  want  to  see  ye."  The  partners  were 
peering  over  the  London  Times  and  occasionally  glancing 
from  its  pages  to  a  long  trade  report,  or  perhaps  more 
frequently  to  a  calendar. 

"  Hello,  Mac,  it's  all  right,  is  it?  "  said  Perkins,  glanc- 
ing at  the  certificate  in  young  MacAllister's  hand.  "  Ye 
heard  the  Castle  Hill's  out  of  commission  for  two 
months'  repairs,  have  ye  not?"  he  added  anxiously. 
"  Well,  the  Climax  finishes  loading  to-night,  and  what 
with  new  tubes  in  that  boiler  —  what  d'ye  think  of  her, 
Mac?  what'll  she  do?" 

"  Five  knots,  I  should  think.     It  depends." 

"  She'll  do  more  than  that.  She's  got  to.  Ye  must  get 
six  or  seven  knots  out  of  her,  MacAllister,"  interjected 
Bolton.  "  Here  it  is  September  gth,  and  the  MjcKinley 
Bill  goes  into  effect  in  America  at  jpMrjjghf,  on  October 
£th.  We  have  Sumatra  tobacco  on  board,  the  duty  on 
which  will  be  advanced  a  dollar  and  twenty-five  cents  a 


FROM  THE  DEPTHS  OF  THINGS        169 

pund,  and  cutlery  from  Sheffield  with  an  increase  almost 
as  high,  and  thousands  of  punds  of  other  dutiable  stuff 
in  the  bargain,  that  is  going  to  be  increased  beyond  all 
reason.  Space  on  all  the  big  liners  due  to  reach  New 
York  before  the  act  goes  into  effect  has  been  filled  at 
seven  times  the  usual  rates,  and  there's  the  devil  to  pay. 
Now  they've  come  down  on  us.  We've  got  the  Climax 
filled  full,  aye,  and  a  deck-load  amidships.  An'  ye  can 
get  over  in  time,  we  are  rich  —  MacAllister,  what  say 
ye?" 

"Six  knots,  eh?"  mused  MacAllister.  "Six  knots 
out  of  the  Climax." 

"  She  has  some  new  boiler  tubes,  MacAllister." 

"Well,  we  can  try,"  said  MacAllister;  "  if  it's  in  her, 
I'll  get  it  out  of  her,  certain." 

"  Ye  start  at  sunrise  to-morrow,  then,"  said  Bolton. 
"  Spare  nothing.  Remember,  October  4th,  at  midnight. 
We  have  had  Captain  McWilliams  here.  At  sunrise  to- 
morrow; and,  Mac,  one  thing  more:  the  Gourock,  of 
Jones  and  Fry,  leaves  to-morrow  at  the  same  hour,  with 
the  same  class  of  cargo  and  on  the  same  mission  as  the 
Climax.  Ye  may  as  not  beat  her,  but  she  mustn't  beat 
ye,  MacAllister." 

MacAllister  closed  his  mouth  tight.  He  remembered 
the  Gourock,  and  he  remembered  the  Scotch  captain 
and  Scotch  chief  engineer  and  the  crew,  all  of  whom  had 
made  it  so  hard  for  him  years  ago  when  he  was  a  greaser 
on  her  —  who  made  it  so  hard  for  him  because  he  was  a 
Yankee.  No;  the  Gourock  would  not  beat  him!  — 
not  while  his  engines  held  together.  But  what  a  race  — 


170  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

the  old  Gourock  and  the  old  Climax;  a  great  race 
between  two  iron  pots  with  clockworks.  This  figure  so 
pleased  MacAllister  that  he  uttered  it  aloud  to  the  part- 
ners, who  snorted  and  waved  him  out  of  the  office. 

"  Remember,  October  4th,  at  midnight,"  they  said. 

"  Aye,"  said  MacAllister.     "  Good-by." 

So  it  was  that  next  day's  sun,  risen  scarce  five  hours, 
found  the  rusty,  bluff-bowed  Climax  approaching 
Daunts  Rock  with  the  greasy,  blood-red  flag  of  Britain 
dimly  showing  through  the  pall  of  black  smoke  driving 
straight  aft  from  the  funnel.  About  a  mile  ahead  wal- 
lowed the  Gourock,  with  the  water  line  hiding  her 
Plimsoll  mark. 

When  MacAllister  was  not  in  the  engine-room,  he  was 
on  the  bridge  with  Captain  McWilliams.  He  was  in 
the  engine-room  most  of  the  time,  and  slept  about  four 
hours  out  of  the  twenty-four.  At  her  best,  the  Cli- 
max had  never  done  the  trip  in  less  than  sixteen  days, 
and  that  was  twenty  years  ago.  This  time  she  had  twen- 
ty-four days,  little  enough  leeway,  considering  the  possi- 
bility of  delay  by  storm  or  through  breakage  in  the  ancient 
machinery.  Yet  MacAllister  had  faith  in  these  old  en- 
gines; he  was  something  of  a  dreamer,  and  he  played 
with  strange  fancies  that  the  spirit  of  all  machinery  was 
something  tangible,  and  that  to  it  his  spirit  had  spoken  of 
the  need  of  more  power,  of  more  speed,  and  of  what  it 
all  would  mean.  There  is  nothing  like  the  dark  engine- 
room  of  a  snoring  old  tramp  to  make  you  feel  things.  It 
was  in  the  Climax  tunnel  that  he  felt  these  things 
most  strongly, —  that  long,  dark  passageway  in  the  bowels 


•     FROM  THE  DEPTHS  OF  THINGS        171 

of  the  vessel  where  the  shaft,  turning  on  its  bearings, 
runs  out  from  the  engines  through  the  stuffing-box  to 
the  screw  outside.  Hourly  trips  must  be  taken  through 
this  tunnel  to  see  that  the  bearings  have  not  become  red- 
hot,  and  MacAlliste/  had  found  a  greaser  asleep  here 
the  night  of  the  second  day  out.  This  coming  as  a  climax 
to  his  overwrought  mind,  he  thenceforth  allowed  no  one 
to  tour  the  tunnel  but  the  second  and  third  engineers. 
But  most  of  the  time  he  did  the  tour  himself,  because 
somehow  he  loved  to  be  there  groping  along  the  dark, 
damp,  oily  passageway,  with  his  lantern  swaying  in  front 
of  him, —  feeling  the  bearings  and  listening  to  the  noises 
which,  among  the  multitude  of  the  Climax's  sounds, 
he  loved  the  most.  The  spirit  of  his  engines  he  heard  in 
there  —  in  the  dark,  and  alone.  There  were  noises,  too, 
in  that  tunnel-shaft  that  he  did  not  understand.  Music 
it  sometimes  seemed  to  be,  at  other  times  the  monotone  of 
a  sighing  spirit.  Again,  there  was  joy  expressed,  and 
sadness  and  wailing  grief.  Then  there  were  sounds  that 
no  human  being  ever  will  understand,  whisperings,  mur- 
murings,  low  cries  —  undefinable,  mysterious,  and  vague. 
Sometimes  he  would  hear  something  that  would  cause  him 
to  stand  transfixed  in  the  sloughing  half  light  of  his  lan- 
tern, wondering,  fearing,  half  tempted  to  raise  his  voice 
in  answer  —  but  in  what  language,  in  what  way  ?  Very 
often,  through  all  the  sounds,  a  voice  would  ring  out 
loud  and  clear  —  only  the  screw  racing ;  who  knows  ?  — 
but  to  MacAllister  it  was  a  paean  of  triumph  voicing  the 
realization  of  all  his  hopes  and  dreams. 
Thus  MacAllister  lived  with  his  engines,  his  spirits 


172  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

•^actuating  with  their  every  mood  and  temper.  Hour  hy 
hour  he  would  work  among  them,  thanking  God  for  the 
great  steady,  powerful  pushing  of  the  connecting-rods 
and  pistons,  and  the  irresistible  whirl  of  the  cranks  and 
throws.  Sometimes  they  would  hobble  slowly,  but  on 
the  whole  they  were  doing  their  work  well.  They  were 
averaging  at  the  best  six  knots  hourly,  and  each  night 
when  MacAllister  had  finished  his  log  for  the  day's  work 
of  his  engines,  he  would  spend  long,  wakeful  hours  won- 
dering —  wondering  whether  it  was  because  of  good  luck, 
American  coal,  and  the  new  tubes,  or  whether  things 
he  had  heard  down  in  that  narrow  tunnel  —  heard  or 
dreamed  —  might  not  have  something  to  do  with  it.  For 
there  was  received  down  there  an  impression  of  force  and 
of  understanding  that  had  taken  captive  his  imagination. 
When  these  thoughts  came  very  strongly,  he  would  go 
up  on  the  bridge  and  talk  sense  with  Captain  Me- 
Williams. 

The  night  of  the  twelfth  day,  and  everything  was 
going,  looking  forward.  Far  astern  could  be  seen  the 
dim,  plunging  lights  of  the  Gourock,  and  despite  a 
northwest  September  gale,  the  hearts  of  the  skipper  and 
the  chief  engineer  were  light. 

"  I  think  that  we'll  make  it,  boy,"  said  McWilliams, 
holding  to  the  bridge  rail  with  one  hand  and  using  the 
other  as  a  trumpet  to  carry  his  voice  into  MacAllister's 
ear.  "  She  drops  a  little  time  once  in  a  while,  but  I 
think  we'll  make  it." 

"  Aye,  maybe,"  replied  the  chief ;  "  it's  a  racketing 
they're  getting  this  night,  though,  those  engines.  It's 


FROM  THE  DEPTHS  OF  THINGS        173 

a  mighty  stiff  racketing  they're  getting.  Hear  that 
screw  race." 

It  was  a  racketing  those  engines  were  getting,  truly, 
for  the  Climax  was  in  a  jumping  seaway  that  would 
racket  anything.  The  two  men,  with  their  sou'westers 
drawn  tight  down  and  their  yellow  slickers  glistening  in 
the  rain,  peered  anxiously  into  the  darkness.  How  black 
it  was!  The  great  waves  rolling  toward  the  Climax 
were  indefinite  —  fantastic,  rocking  shadows,  they 
seemed,  let  loose  from  the  enshrouding  veil  to  do  their 
harm.  Occasionally  the  vessel's  few  lights  would  quiver 
along  the  water  on  the  uproll,  lighting  a  foam-crested 
wave  for  an  instant;  then  a  sidelong  plunge,  and  all 
was  blank  again. 

"  Umph,"  said  McWilliams,  "  a  nasty  night,  Mac- 
Allister.  If  the  engines  —  " 

He  stopped  and  gripped  the  engineer's  arm.  Mac- 
Allister's  face  had  gone  a  sickly  yellow. 

A  sound  was  roaring  up  from  the  very  soul  of  the  ship, 
like  the  sound  of  a  great  oak  riven  by  lightning  and 
falling.  The  next  instant  came  the  frightful  whirr  of 
the  engines,  released  from  their  strain  of  pushing  the 
steamship  and  racing  free. 

"  The  shafjMKas^one,"  shouted  MacAllister,  jumping 
for  the  ladder  as  the  Climax  fell  off  into  the  trough 
of  the  sea.  In  ten  seconds  he  was  in  the  engine-room 
shouting  to  his  assistants,  who  had  stopped  the  engines 
an  instant  after  the  break.  As  MacAllister  had  said,  the 
tunnel-shaft  had  snapped ;  snapped  clean,  right  in  the 
middle  of  the  tunnel,  and  the  two  ends  were  battering 


174  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

the  floor,  as  the  vessel  fell  off  and  rolled  in  the  sea 
hollows.  It  would  be  death  to  venture  in  there  before 
the  ship's  head  had  been  brought  up  into  the  seas.  For 
two  hours  she  wallowed,  while  MacAllister  cursed  and 
mourned,  by  turns.  Then,  slowly,  she  swung  up,  under 
the  control  of  a  sea-anchor  which  McWilliams  and  his 
crew  had  succeeded  in  streaming.  The  Captain  came 
down  into  the  engine-room. 

"  Well,  it's  over,  I  should  say,  Mac,"  he  groaned. 
"  We're  a  log  in  the  sea,  until  we  get  a  tow." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  MacAllister ;  "  we're  going  to 
try  to  fix  it."  Try!  He  was  going  to  fix  it;  they  were 
racing  the  Gourock. 

He  already  had  his  men  passing  chains  under  the  two 
broken  ends;  the  chains  were  then  suspended  from  the 
roof  of  the  tunnel,  bringing  the  two  ends  to  a  level.  No 
sooner  was  this  done  than  MacAllister,  in  spite  of  the 
plunging  of  the  ship  and  the  probability  of  the  chains' 
letting  go  their  burden,  crawled  in  under  the  break  and 
began  to  take  hurried  measurements. 

"  My  God,"  ejaculated  the  Captain,  "  come  out  of 
there,  Mac.  It  ain't  worth  it." 

But  MacAllister  couldn't  hear  him;  it  would  have 
made  no  difference  if  he  had  heard.  He  was  under  there 
half  an  hour  —  until  he  completed  his  measurements  for 
a  collar  to  be  fastened  over  the  break.  The  rest  of  the 
night  he  spent  in  making  the  collar,  and  when  it  was 
finished  at  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning,  he  went  up  on 
deck  to  sec  the  Gourock  go  by.  How  she  bit  the 
waves  as  she  plunged  by,  and  what  a  triumphant  scream 


FROM  THE  DEPTHS  OF  THINGS        175 

of  her  siren  was  flung  back  as  a  jeer  at  the  poor 
old  Climax!  White  with  rage,  Captain  McWilliams 
seized  the  whistle  cord  and  jerked  it  until  even  the  roar 
of  the  storm  was  shattered  by  the  volume  of  sound  pour- 
ing out  of  the  Climax's  brazen  whistle.  The  Gourock 
replied  with  several  small  toots ;  —  it  was  as  acri- 
monious a  dialogue  as  two  vessels  ever  indulged  in. 
MacAllister  went  down  to  his  work  with  a  grim  smile. 
Twelve  hours  he  spent  on  his  back  underneath  the  two 
swaying  ends  of  the  broken  shaft,  and  four  hours,  cramped 
in  a  squatting  position  in  the  narrow  space.  At  the  end 
of  forty-eight  hours  he  had  bolted  the  jacket  into  place, 
and  then  he  emerged  from  the  tunnel  and  toppled  over 
on  the  engine-room  floor,  asleep  even  as  he  fell.  When 
'he  came  to,  he  was  in  his  bunk,  and  the  first  impression 
he  had  was  of  a  vast  groaning  and  clanging  down  in  the 
Climax's  vitals,  which  told  him  his  engines  were  per- 
forming their  work  once  more. 

Thus  the  Climax  went  on  her  way,  the  collar  hold- 
ing, and  the  engines  doing  all  the  work  that  MacAllister 
could  expect,  and  more,  too.  From  this  time  there  were 
few  minutes  that  he  was  not  among  them,  sometimes  in 
the  tunnel,  but  more  often  —  now  that  the  shaft  might 
break  again  —  with  his  ear  against  the  bulkhead  door, 
listening  to  the  sounds  within,  almost  pleading  with  the 
great  shaft  to  be  strong  and  do  its  work. 

Five  days  later  the  Captain  called  him  to  the  bridge 
to  look  at  a  strange  object  dead  ahead.  The  hull  re- 
sembled that  of  the  Gourock,  but  there  were  points 
of  dissimilarity  which  rendered  the  matter  uncertain. 


176  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

"  It  must  be  the  Gourock"  said  McWilliams,  strain- 
ing his  eyes  through  the  battered  binoculars.  "  But 
she  looks  queer.  Take  another  look.  Mac.  She  ought 
to  be  somewhere  ahead." 

MacAllister  pressed  the  glasses  to  his  eyes,  took  a  long, 
hard  look,  and  then  uttered  a  howl  of  joy  as  the  glasses 
fell  with  a  crash. 

"  Whoop,  aye,  it's  the  Gourock/'  he  screamed,  "  and 
she's  lost  her  funnel.  Rolled  it  clean  overboard.  Look." 

It  was  even  so.  Evidently  the  storm  of  the  two  days 
back  had  swept  it  overboard,  and  there  she  lay  gasping 
and  wheezing  like  a  stranded  whale. 

"  I'll  sympathize  with  them,"  said  McWilliams,  grimly 
seizing  the  whistle  cord. 

As  the  Climax  passed  the  hooker,  the  insults  all  came 
from  her.  The  Gourock's  whistle  had  gone  with  the 
funnel. 

"  Now  for  it,"  muttered  MacAllister,  going  below. 

Now  for  it,  indeed.  Sandy  Hook  was  four  days  away, 
and  the  Climax  had  but  a  few  hours  to  spare.  Even 
at  that,  the  old  vessel  must  keep  pushing.  So  she  did 
until  nine  hours  after  the  Gourock  had  been  left  as- 
tern, and  then  MacAllister  began  to  detect  a  new  note 
in  the  chorus  of  the  engine-room.  He  couldn't  tell  what 
it  was,  but  the  spirit  of  his  engines,  was  clear.  Hope- 
less, pessimistic,  jarring,  it  rose  and  grew,  an  alien  note 
for  those  brave,  clattering  old  engines  to  send  up.  So 
MacAllister  was  not  surprised  to  find  that  most  of  the 
push  was  going  out  of  the  Climax.  She  was  logging 
miserably,  and  the  screw  seemed  to  be  putting  barely 


FROM  THE  DEPTHS  OF  THINGS        177 

sufficient    power    in    her    kick    to    whiten    the    water. 

For  twenty-four  hours  the  Climax  did  not  average 
more  than  three  knots  hourly,  and  the  time  limit  was 
rapidly  drawing  to  a  close.  Once  fall  behind,  and  it 
would  make  little  difference  whether  or  not  she  reached 
port  at  all.  MacAllister  was  aging  rapidly.  He  had 
his  suspicions  as  to  what  the  matter  was,  but  said  nothing 
until  he  had  investigated  thoroughly.  What  he  discov- 
ered confirmed  his  worst  fears,  and  it  was  two  hours  be- 
fore he  made  up  his  mind  to  report  the  facts  to  the  Cap- 
tain. When  he  decided,  he  called  his  staff  together,  gave 
several  orders,  and  then  went  up  on  the  bridge.  In  an- 
swer to  McWilliams'  questioning  look,  the  engineer 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  have  had  the  fire  pulled  out  from  under  the  main 
boiler."  McWilliams  uttered  a  heavy  oath  and  kicked 
out  a  section  of  the  hand-rail. 

"  Tubes?  "  he  finally  asked. 

"  Aye,  leaky  tubes,"  said  MacAllister.  "  Ye  might 
well  curse  'em  —  the  Climax,  her  boilers,  and  every- 
thing else." 

"  But  we  can't  lose  now,"  cried  McWilliams.  He 
groaned.  "Can't  we  do  anything?" 

"  We're  a-goin'  to  try,"  replied  the  engineer.  "  I'm 
a-goin'  into  that  boiler.  If  it  can  be  fixed,  we'll  fix  it, 
all  right.  Were  ye  ever  in  Hell,  McWilliams?" 

McWilliams  stared  at  him  as  he  made  his  way  from 
the  bridge,  and  then  turned  his  gaze  astern  as  though  he 
expected  to  see  the  Gourock  rushing  up  over  the  ocean. 
Hut  she  was  nowhere  in  sight. 


178  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

Half  an  hour  later,  MacAllister,  wrapped  from  head 
to  foot  in  a  coating  of  asbestos,  approached  the  maniole 
of  the  boijer.  He  put  in  his  hand,  holding  it  there  for 
five  minutes. 

"  Not  so  hot.  I  guess  I  can  stand  it.  When  I  come 
near  the  opening,  stand  by  to  haul  me  out,"  he  said  to 
his  assistants. 

Then,  with  hammer  and  chisel  in  hand,  he  went  into 
that  hellish  boiler  and  began  tearing  out  the  defective 
tubes.  He  worked  for  a  minute,  holding  his  breath  in 
the  meanwhile  —  a  single  lung-full  of  that  hot,  rust- 
laden  air  would  have  killed  him.  Then  he  came  out. 
Seven  minutes  later  he  went  in  again.  He  cut  away 
two  tubes  before  he  was  hauled  out.  The  next  time 
foujjtubes  were  removed,  and  then  he  tooj^ji.  ten  minutes' 
rest.  He  had  cut  out  all  the  defective  tubes,  and  now 
new  tubes  to  replace  them  must  be  reamed  in.  In  doing 
this,  he  was  obliged  to  enter  the  boiler  five^times.  stay- 
ing in  each  time  a  full  minute.  As  the  last  tube  was 
fixed,  he  was  hauled  unconscious  from  the  manhole  and 
carried  on  deck.  He  did  not  know  that  the  Gourock 
had  passed  three  hours  before,  with  a  funnel  rigged  up 
out  of  sheets  of  tin  and  pieces  of  junk,  held  together  by 
wisps  of  old  sails,  twine,  and  rope-ends,  and  stayed  by 
lines  made  fast  to  the  mast  rails, —  such  a  wonderful 
sight  that  Captain  McWilliams'  whistle  forgot  to  swear 
as  she  waddled  past  like  a  slatternly  old  woman. 

So  MacAllister  was  carried  to  his  bunk,  where  he 
lay  for  many  hours,  raving  and  declaring  that  he  was 
toasting  in  a  fiery  furnace.  But  his  work  was  done. 


FROM  THE  DEPTHS  OF  THINGS        179 

Now  it  was  for  McWilliams  to  carry  it  through  to  con- 
clusion. Fires  were  started  again  under  the  repaired 
boiler,  and  fat  and  oil  were  mixed  with  the  coal.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  engines  would  kick  their  way  out  through 
the  bottom  of  the  ship.  They  got  her  up  to  eight  knots, 
and  they  held  her  there,  and  when  she  passed  the  Gou- 
rock  between  Fire  Island  and  Sandy  Hook,  McWilliams 
ran  down  from  the  bridge  and  carried  the  chief  engineer 
on  deck  to  see  the  fun. 

Up  the  bay  she  clattered,  pausing  just  long  enough  at 
quarantine  to  report  no  contagious  disease  and  to  be 
passed  by  the  health  officer  —  October  4th,  and  one 
hour  and  five  minutes  before  midnight.  Events  followed 
swiftly ;  —  a  plunge  up  to  the  Statue  of  Liberty,  a  tug 
hurrying  alongside  in  response  to  continuous  whistling, 
the  Captain's  leap  to  the  deck  with  his  papers  in  his 
pocket;  a  dash  for  the  Battery  landing,  a  hack  tearing 
for  the  Custom  .  Hqyse;  a  bustling  of  sleepy  clerks;  and 
then  Captain  McWilliams  sighing  and  lighting  a  cigar 
with  trembling  hands  —  one  minute  before  midnight,  and 
his  entire  cargo  swojri_jn.  The  Gourock's  skipper 
came  in  time  to  qualify  under  the  new  duties  of  the  Mc- 
Kinley  Bill. 

A  cable  despatch  to  Captain  McWilliams  the  next  day 
announced  the  gratitude  and  appreciation  of  Bolton  and 
Perkins,  and  when  the  details  of  the  passage  were 
learned,  MacAllister  received  one  himself;  and  that  jyas 
all  there  ever_was;  but  then,  what  could  he  expect? 

^lacAllister  is  chief  engineer  on  one  of  the  finest  trans- 
Atlantic  liners  now,  where  the  shaft-tunnel  is  brilliant 


i8o  THE  JOY  IN  WORK 

with  electric  lights  against  white  walls  and  tiled  flooring 
—  where  the  sounds  ever  constitute  a  grand  symphony. 
Yet,  when  MacAllister  closes  his  eyes  and  thinks  of  that 
oily,  mysterious  little  tunnel  of  the  Climax  he  feels 
that  he  has  lost  something.  But  that  is  always  the  way 
with  dreamers. 

LAWRENCe-'PERRY. 


THE   BND 


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A     000024233     £ 


